Explosion Proof
by InfinityStar
Summary: Someone seems to have a score to settle against Eames. Or do they?
1. Manhattan

**A/N: I would like to say thank you to everyone who responded to my request for brainstorming assistance. My warmest thanks go to mitfordgal, Metisse, iluvstabler, Canmar, bammi1, Tate Sourwater, rindy 713, squarey, Lynne z, Carol, and river57. If I forgot anyone, I apologize. Special thanks for the poem go to Canmar. And I want to send a special hello and thank you to my friend deliriousdancer. She knows why.**

* * *

Robert Goren smoothed his hand over his tie and slipped his tie clip into place. Then he gave himself a critical overview in the mirror. He'd lost some of the weight he'd gained at the end of his mother's life, though not in a healthy manner, and his dark hair was now more gray than brown. His eyes still bore the haunted look they usually did; he knew of no way to chase away his demons. Instead, he kept collecting more.

As he stepped away from the mirror, one of his newest demons slipped into his mind. He remembered the last words he had spoken to his junkie brother: "If I hear that you're on a bridge, ready to jump, I'll listen for the splash."

The ghost of his mother's criticism haunted him for that, and he wondered if it was his own conscience assuming her voice. Very effective, very familiar. He had no idea where to find Frank these days. He'd gone by the motel where he'd last seen him, but he was long gone. He continued to search for his nephew, concerned for his well being but angry that he had used him to escape prison. Donnie still had a debt to pay, however unfair he thought it, and Goren was determined he would serve the rest of his time.

Every time he found something new about his family, it was something bad, he reflected bitterly, recalling the shadow his mother had cast over his paternity by her deathbed revelation that Mark Ford Brady might have been his father. _I'm sorry, Bobby._ How did one apologize for something like that?

Then Frank brought to his attention a bipolar nephew who was now a fugitive from justice because of him. He decided to stop asking, to stop looking. The things he knew were bad enough. He needed nothing more to drag him further down.

He pulled on his jacket and buttoned it. Every night, he relived the days he spent at Tate's, and every morning, awakening from the nightmare, he found himself grateful, again, for Eames. But now, instead of simply taking her presence for granted, he called her to tell her. She seemed to appreciate hearing from him. It was the only way she knew that he was all right, and she seemed to need to know that he was.

Finally, after two months' suspension, he had been cleared for duty and reinstated. The chief had been hoping the psychological evaluation would render him unfit for duty, but that had not been the case. Instead, it had not only found him fit, but it determined the job necessary for his well being. There was no doubt in the mind of the evaluator that Goren could do his job as well as he ever had.

Grabbing his overcoat, he headed out the door, not looking back into the apartment that had become a new kind of prison to him. Everywhere he turned he found bars of one sort or another keeping him in, and he felt smothered. He was hoping things would turn around for him now that he was returning to work. After all, it was only through the job that he felt his life worthwhile. He locked the door and headed for the stairs. The elevator was too claustrophobic for him today. For the same reason, he opted to drive and not take the subway. He didn't particularly feel like being around too many people...as if they could read his mind and know what a screw-up he was.

A screw-up...A smile forced its way onto his face as he got into his car. In a particularly bitter mood, last week he'd voice his opinion of himself to his partner. She had read him the riot act. "A caring heart and an unquenchable thirst for the truth does not make you a screw-up, Bobby," she'd scolded.

_Tell that to the chief, and the world at large, _he mused. He'd tried to do right by Kevin Quinn, Joe Dutton and the justice system, and he was branded a whack job. He tried to connect with his nephew, seeking the truth in what the young man thought he saw, and he got suspended for two months, in addition to nearly losing his life What wonders awaited the next application of his integrity? The answer would come much sooner than he anticipated.

The squad room wasn't very busy when he got off the elevator, but it was early. Eames wasn't there yet, but he didn't expect that she would be. She knew his suspension was ending but he had been purposely vague about when he was coming back. He so rarely had the opportunity to surprise her. Placing her coffee on her desk, he set a pastry bag beside it, along with a single rose, and pulled the papers from his inbox to review them.

Fifteen minutes later, a hand came to rest on his shoulder and he looked up into Mike Logan's grinning face. "Welcome back, buddy."

Logan had taken the time and effort to spend time with him during his suspension, and Goren had deeply appreciated his effort. Logan felt he was given a raw deal, and he knew all about getting shafted by the brass. Goren smiled at him. "Thanks, Mike."

Several detectives made the effort to welcome Goren back to the squadroom. Many of them had not agreed with his suspension, even if they had not been surprised by the chief's response to his actions. A few minutes before he expected Eames to arrive, Goren went into a conference room, watching and waiting.

As she rode up in the elevator toward the eleventh floor, Eames realized she was tired. She was tired of playing games with the brass, tired of fighting battle after battle that she should not have to fight. Goren wasn't the whack job everyone seemed to think he was. She should know; no one knew him better than she did.

She was pleased that the psychiatric evaluation he'd undergone concurred with her. It hadn't been a fly-by-night evaluation, either. Conducted over several sessions and very in depth, it wasn't something Moran could dismiss out of hand. According to Ross, he had not been happy with the results, but he wasn't in a position where he could justify putting Goren through repeated evaluations until he got the results he wanted. She was glad that the chief was angry about being forced to return Goren to duty. The man was an arrogant prick, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from telling him that last week when he'd called her into Ross' office for a dressing-down about her partner. Ross had taken the time after Moran left to talk to her, reassuring her by letting her know for certain that he did want Goren as a member of his squad.

Her mood was dark as she got off the elevator and pulled off her coat. Hanging it on the coat rack closest to her desk, she turned away from it and stopped. Coffee, a pastry, a single rose...her eyes scanned the squad room. Logan avoided her gaze and she frowned at him. She sat at her desk and opened the pastry bag, pulling out the cherry cheese danish. It was fresh, with a thick coating of icing, just the way she liked it. Savoring the first bite, she was halfway through it when she caught a whiff of a familiar aftershave a second before his voice whispered past her ear. "Are you ready to get back to work, detective?"

She laughed and turned in her chair, her face bright. "Welcome back, partner."

His eyes held a dull reflection of her joy, and she tried to remember the last time she saw emotion in his eyes that was not clouded by doubt or depression. She touched his arm. "I am glad you're back, Bobby."

He withdrew his arm, but gave her a smile as he walked around to his desk. "I'm glad to be back. Thank you, Eames."

She didn't address his withdrawal. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming back?"

He looked up from his binder, and there was a glimmer of his old self in his eyes. "I wanted to surprise you," he answered.

She took more comfort from the gleam in his eyes than from anything he said. She smiled before she turned to the work on her desk. The corner of his mouth turned up and he returned his attention to his binder.

Twenty minutes later, Ross arrived, stopping beside Goren's desk on his way by. "It's good to see you back, detective. Your presence was missed."

Goren looked at him for a moment before averting his eyes. "Thank you, sir."

Ross looked at Eames. "Did you tell him?"

"Not yet, captain."

Ross nodded, then proceeded to his office without saying anything more. Eames knew her partner's curiosity would get the better of him, and Ross knew it, too, damn him. Sure enough, the captain had no sooner gone into his office before Goren said, "Tell me what?"

She smiled affectionately. "He wants you to know that he backed you all the way when Moran went off about your supposed instability. When you were cleared for duty, the chief was unhappy, to say the least. Captain Ross stood up for you, told him he wanted you back on the job, back in his squad." She raised a finger. "But he doesn't want any more headaches, Bobby. I told him no promises."

Goren studied her for a moment, then he smiled. "I'll try. That's the best I can do."

She nodded her head toward the other side of the squad room. "Logan's glad you're back. You take some of the pressure off him."

"Anything I can do to make Logan's life easier," he joked, but she saw a glimmer of sincerity in his eyes. She realized he was aware that Logan had supported him during his absence, and that had endeared him to her.

She pulled out a file and passed it over to him. "Let me know what you think," she said, giving him another brief smile.

He held her gaze, then nodded and turned his attention to the file. It kept him occupied for the rest of the morning.

* * *

Logan joined them for lunch, reiterating how glad he was to have Goren back. Eames was thrilled to see her partner laugh with Logan. He had not had much reason to laugh lately, but maybe now things would settle in his life and he would be able to relax. She also sensed that they had a chance to work out the problems that had cropped up between them, causing a tension in their relationship that neither of them wanted there. It all began when she had been kidnapped by Jo Gage, something she had tried hard not to blame him for, but did. The thought of it made her sick, but she couldn't always help how she felt. When she had been forced to read her withdrawn request for a new partner in open court, blindsiding him with that painful revelation, he had not made an issue of it. The entire thing went by the wayside and they moved past it. She had been unable to do that in the wake of Declan and Jo Gage. Not even therapy had helped her move on and it sat between them like a coiled viper waiting to strike.

The revelation that he had not seen fit to tell her about his mother's cancer and the major fallout they'd had shortly after she found out had done nothing to help matters and they had drifted further apart, driven by unresolved issues that they chose to ignore rather than deal with. His mother's death seemed to have set them on the right path to reconciliation, but it had not lasted. When he had chosen to reinvestigate Joe's murder without telling her, not only had he reopened raw wounds, he had rubbed salt in them. But once again, his instincts had proven true and his investigation was solid. She slowly began to find her way back to him, and he seemed to stop running away. Then he got himself locked away in Tate's, and she had nearly lost him, permanently. She found that losing him as her partner paled in comparison to the thought of losing him from her life. While he served his suspension, recovering his balance as he searched for his renegade nephew, she made certain she was there for him. Kenny Moran could not forbid her to spend time with her partner. He was her superior on the job, but he did not own her life. Ross had cautioned her to proceed with care. Moran couldn't care less if Logan hung out with Goren, but he said that the maverick detective had done enough damage to Eames' career. Filled with fury, Eames went off on the captain, discharging every resentment she harbored toward the department for betraying and abandoning a man who had given a portion of his soul to the job. Ross let her go, listening carefully to every word and hearing in them a deep concern and abiding love he had feared she'd lost. Spent of her anger, she stood before the captain's desk, jaw jutting defiantly toward him as if daring him to suspend her for believing in Goren. But Ross had given her a rare smile of affection. "I was wondering what it would take," he said quietly.

"Sir?"

"I wondered how far you would let it go before you struck back. Eames, I am not forbidding you from seeing Goren. Just be careful what Moran sees. I can't say for certain what your association with Goren has cost you in terms of your career, but I can see that you are not particularly worried about that. I know you care about your partner. You have been running interference for him since I took over Major Case. But Moran is on the warpath and, unfortunately, you and I are in his crosshairs at the moment. Tell your partner I am fighting for his reinstatement and let's not do anything to tank either of your careers."

Since then, Eames had developed a new respect for Ross. He had accepted the black mark in his jacket with his head held high, as had she, convinced they had done the right thing in rescuing Goren from his incarceration. It infuriated him that Moran seemed to prefer that he and Eames should have left Goren there to die. It had taken every fiber of control he had to keep a lid on the rage he felt at the chief's attitude toward Goren, which had been there since Moran took over as chief and only worsened after the Quinn shooting. Ross did not, however, take out any of his anger on Eames. After his verbal chastisement of her for letting her partner undertake a rogue assignment without his okay and with minimal backup, he had not brought it up again with her. He was good at letting things in the past stay there, and he had mastered the ability to move on without resentment. Eames admired him for that. She also admired his ability to go to bat for Goren, and even to develop a liking for her partner, in spite of his issues...or maybe it was because of them. Ross welcomed a challenge, and she had to admit, Goren had given him plenty of challenge. Between him and Logan, Ross remained on his toes. He hated being caught off-guard, and Goren's escapade at Tate's had done just that. However, he recognized Goren's loyalty and devotion and he understood it, even if he felt it was misplaced. He still stepped up to the plate and stood behind his detective as he defended his actions to the chief. Moran had taken a hard line, which Ross disagreed with, but it was the chief's call. Eames could tell the captain was pleased that Goren was being returned to duty. But he was walking a tightrope; Moran would tolerate no further insolence from him. She hoped he realized that and took it to heart.

* * *

In the middle of the afternoon, Goren and Eames got called into Ross' office. The captain laid out his expectations very clearly. He would allow Goren some leeway to get the job done, but he made it clear that Moran was gunning for him and he had to watch his step. Among the detectives in the department, he and Logan were at the top of the chief's shit list. The main point of the talk was caution. "Watch your step, detective. There is only so much I can do for you, so don't push it."

Goren was subdued as they walked back to their desks. "You can't just take things upon yourself, Bobby," Eames warned. "Procedures are in place for a reason. I know you don't particularly like that, but those are the boundaries we have to stay inside."

He waved his hand impatiently. "I know that, Eames. And you know there are sometimes better ways to go about things."

She sighed in frustration as he dropped into his chair. "I can't keep taking the fall for you, partner," she complained.

He picked up an envelope from his desk and studied it for a moment before he looked up at her. "I never asked you to."

Sliding his finger under the flap, he opened the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of card stock. Printed neatly on the white paper was a poem:

_Everything comes so easy to him.  
__He Always takes it for granted;__  
She is Meant to be treated better.  
__Yet he continues Eating away at her life  
And she gets the Short end of the stick.  
Can I settle this matter for him?  
I'm An expert at making things tick.  
I will Respond to his arrogance around 5._

"What's that?" Eames asked.

He handed it to her and studied the envelope more closely. It was paper that could be purchased at any stationary store. He took the card when she handed it back and held it up to the light. It was too thick to contain a watermark. She wore a puzzled frown. "What do you think it means?"

"I don't know."

He leaned back in his chair and studied the card, reading the words over and over. By the end of the day, he knew them by heart, but he still had no idea what they referred to. Eames straightened her desk and put her things away as he turned his attention to the structure of the words: grammar, punctuation, capitalization. He waved to Eames as she said good night, barely acknowledging her teasing admonition not to stay there all night long.

He sat up suddenly, a dark frown clouding his face. Patterns...He was good at seeing patterns. He noted the placement in each line of the capitalized letters: one, two, three, four, five...one, two, three...E-A-M-E-S C-A-R.

Swearing, he dropped the card on his desk and bolted for the stairwell.

Eames approached her car, keys in hand. It had been a good day. The card, whatever it was, managed to keep Goren occupied for the remainder of the afternoon and she smiled about that. He loved puzzles. As she slid the key into the door lock, she heard a shout. Turning, she was surprised when her partner grabbed her and dragged her away from the car. Glancing at his watch, he ran her halfway down the level before knocking her to the ground and dropping on top of her. His watch read five o'clock as he landed. The ground beneath them shook violently and a powerful, hot wind gushed over them. Chunks of concrete and car pieces rained down on them. As the air around them settled, Goren pulled away from her. "Are you all right, Eames?"

She sat up slowly and glared at him. He looked at the ground. "I-I'm sorry. I, uh, I just figured it out..."

He trailed off as people began to arrive. She didn't say a word, but got to her feet and walked to the burning shell of metal, plastic and fabric that used to be her car and the ones adjacent to it. The air was filled with the acrid scent of burning wires, melting plastic and hot metal. Goren also approached the smoldering wreck, but as he got closer and closer, Eames grabbed his jacket and pulled him back. "Let the bomb squad do it. That's their job, not yours."

They heard a familiar voice, raised in anger. "What the hell happened here?"

Goren faded into the background, leaning against a nearby car and hoping not to get noticed. It was his first day back and he did not want blame for this to fall on him. He was also caught offguard by his partner's anger. Ross arrived a few moments later, as Moran was screaming at the people gathered. "What do you mean, you don't know? There was an explosion in the parking garage at police headquarters! Whose cars are involved?"

"Mine was one, chief," Eames said as Ross came to stand behind her.

Moran glared at her as Ross casually scanned the surroundings until he found Goren. He gave him a brief nod and Goren stayed where he was. Four cars had been engulfed by the explosion and a number of others had suffered damage. In the midst of the confusion, Ross stepped away from the crowd to Goren's side. The man looked a little shell-shocked. "What happened?" he asked, not intending to be overheard.

"Someone left a notecard on my desk with a poem on it. It took half the afternoon for me to figure out that it was a threat against Eames. I got her away from the car just in time."

Ross nodded slowly. "Wait here." He found Eames and leaned close to speak into her ear. "I'm taking Goren back up to the squad room. Come up when you're done here."

She nodded and he squeezed her arm. Stepping away from her, he walked away from the crowd and motioned to Goren, who joined him. They left the area without being noticed.


	2. Queens

**A/N: Once more, thank you very much to Canmar for her help with the poem and squarey for the talks about which church to use. **

* * *

When Eames returned to the squad room, it was very obvious that she was still furious. Ross was seated on the edge of Goren's desk. In his chair, Goren avoided her gaze, not certain just what he had done to infuriate her but unwilling to chance making it worse.

When she saw him avert his gaze, she realized how it must seem to him, and she stopped behind his chair, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. "It's okay, Bobby. I'm not mad at you. I'm just angry." She drew in a deep breath. "What the hell was that? Why would anyone want to blow up my car?"

"That," said Ross. "Was another burr under the chief's saddle. Do either of you have any idea who could have planted that bomb?"

Goren shook his head. "I can't think of anyone who doesn't like Eames. Now if it were my car..." He trailed off, a thoughtful look on his face. He turned toward his desk, picking up the poem. "It wasn't my car..."

"What are you thinking?" Ross asked.

Shaking himself from his reverie, Goren answered, "It's too early. Come on, Eames. I'll take you home."

Ross lowered his brows and said, "Keep me informed."

Eames nodded. "We always do, captain."

The captain's eyes shifted from one detective to the other. "You're shaken," he observed, stating the obvious. He pulled out his wallet and handed Goren a twenty. "Stop for a drink on the way home. You could both use it."

Goren hesitated and Ross stuffed the bill into his hand. "I'll see you in the morning."

He walked away, toward his office. Goren touched his partner's arm and led her in the opposite direction, toward the elevators, before Moran could put in an appearance. The chief was the last person he wanted to see.

The elevator ride back to the parking garage was silent. As they stepped from the elevator, the acrid smell of smoke, explosives and burning car parts was still heavy in the air, even though they were two levels below it. Eames sighed. "That car was almost paid off."

"I'm sorry, Eames."

"You really need to stop taking responsibility for the world on your shoulders, Goren."

Opening his mouth to reply, he thought better of it and remained silent. He opened the passenger door of his SUV and held it for her. She offered no argument, climbing into the passenger seat and leaning forward to cover her face with both hands. Goren scanned the area, then stepped in close, resting a hand on her leg and touching his forehead to her temple. He didn't say a word, but her trembling subsided and she felt comforted. Lowering one hand, she placed it over his, gently stroking his fingers.

When he withdrew, she felt better, and she gave him a reassuring smile to let him know it. The corner of his mouth quirked a little as he stepped back and closed the door.

* * *

Less than an hour later, they were seated in a quiet, smoky neighborhood bar, not far from Goren's apartment. It was much quieter than the often raucous atmosphere of the establishments around the precinct houses which catered to off-duty cops. The last thing Eames needed was more questions thrown at her about their personal relationship. He was used to the scrutiny of his peers, but he hated that he had dragged her into it as well.

Eames swirled the swizzle stick in her hurricane while Goren studied the amber liquid in his own glass. Finally, Eames said, "Why would anyone bomb my car?"

He took a drink. "I'm going to find out," he promised.

It was one promise he intended to keep, and he reinforced the promise by touching her hand with the back of his fingers. Touched by the gesture, she leaned her head to the side, against his shoulder. He let out a slow breath and took another drink.

* * *

Moran was on the warpath, and Major Case shared his wrath with the bomb squad. They were no closer to finding the person who blew up Eames' car than they had been the evening it happened, and the atmosphere in both squads was tense. Goren, in particular, was on edge, and that troubled Eames. He wanted to protect her, but it was difficult to do, not knowing where the threat came from. Ross had a gift for unwittingly setting Goren off, and Eames was getting tired of running interference between them. It wasn't Ross' fault that her partner was explosive, and it wasn't Goren's fault that Ross was being hammered by the chief for answers he did not have. The resulting tension was like mixing a candle with gunpowder, so Eames did her best to keep them busy outside the squad room. But in the squad room or out of it, they were getting nowhere.

January eighteenth was a Friday. Eames always took the day off rather than try to work in a distracted, unsettled mood. She spent the morning leafing through photo albums and reading old cards and letters, somehow keeping alive memories that were simultaneously pleasant and painful. They were good memories. The pain came from the fact that they were just that, memories, and there would never be more to look back on, because Joe was gone.

Thirteen years, she mused as she sat alone in an empty pew of a dimly-lit church. Holy Family, the church where she and Joe were married thirteen years ago. She had been a widow for the last ten of those years, and sometimes, the pain was as fresh as it was the night he died. Maybe it wasn't the best thing in the world for her to dwell on the past, but they had been happy times, and she had never again managed to find anything close to it. She closed her eyes but it didn't stop the tears of grief for the love she lost and the love she had never found to fill that void.

* * *

Goren was deeply unsettled, unable to remain at his desk for more than a few minutes at a stretch. Ross watched him, exhausted by the man's constant need to be moving. Without Eames to settle him down, Goren could not find a middle ground. Ross had an inkling of that when he'd first started with the squad and Eames had been kidnapped. Goren skirted on the edge when his partner was not around.

While he was at lunch, Ross made up his mind to give Goren a break and let him go home. When he entered the squad room, he was surprised to see Goren sitting at his desk, reading something and not moving at all. He approached the man. "Goren?"

The detective turned dark, worried eyes to his captain. Now closer to Goren, Ross noticed that his hand was shaking. "What is it?"

Goren offered the paper to the captain, who took it by the edge, noting that Goren was wearing gloves, and read the printed words:

_How does she live with the grief?__  
She's spent so much time on her Own  
__Love was so good for her once  
Then it all was taken that Year  
Far be it for me to assume  
She would ever do it Again  
Maybe another surprise would  
Make her aware of what she's currently In  
Let's take a walk down memory lane  
Since this would have been thirteen Years_

Ross frowned, confused. "What does it mean?"

Goren struggled to keep his voice even. "Today would have been her thirteenth anniversary."

Ross felt his gut churning, his lunch forming a solid lump in the pit of his stomach. "Where is she, Goren?"

Goren had grabbed a pen and a piece of paper, writing out every capitalized letter in the poem. He shoved the paper into Ross' hand and lurched to his feet. Ross read the letters as he ran out of the squad room after Goren. H-O-L-Y-F A-M-I-L-Y.

"Holy Family?" he asked as they got into the elevator.

Goren nodded. "In Queens. It's where she and Joe got married."

"Let me guess. That's where she is now."

"God, I hope not," Goren replied as he pulled out his phone.

When Eames didn't answer, he knew that the church was exactly where his partner was, sitting on top of another bomb.

* * *

During the high-speed drive to Queens, Ross developed an appreciation for why Eames did the driving. He understood that Goren was frightened for his partner, and he remained silent as they weaved precariously in and out of mid-afternoon traffic.

Screeching to a halt outside the church, they were met by three local squad cars who arrived a few minutes before they did and were preparing to evacuate the church and the buildings and homes around it. Goren bolted from the vehicle and ran into the church, finding his partner with ease in the almost-empty building. Composing himself and falling back on a lifetime of learned respect for the church, even if he was no longer a practicing Catholic, he walked to the pew she was in and slid in beside her.

"Bobby?" she whispered in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

He knew she'd been crying, and that gripped his heart unexpectedly. He wanted to comfort her but he knew there was no way he could. "Please, come with me, Eames. Now."

The urgency in his tone alarmed her. "What's wrong?"

"Outside," he muttered, giving her a gentle shove toward the door once they were out of the pew.

She headed out of the church, expecting him to follow, but when she stepped outside, he was not behind her. Ross hurried up to her. "Where's Goren?"

"I don't know. He was right behind me."

She started back into the church, but Ross grabbed her arm. "No. He'll be right out."

"Captain..."

But he turned his attention to three elderly women who came hurrying out of the church, whispering among themselves as they wondered why a police officer would ask them to leave. Ross guided them away from the building, calling to Eames to follow him. She waited, watching the front doors of the church, only looking away toward the street when the bomb squad arrived. "Oh, my God..." she whispered.

She started back toward the front doors as one of them slammed open. Goren grabbed her arm and pulled her along with him as he rushed away from the building. He pointed at the scrambling bomb squad members. "It's under the altar! You have five minutes!"

They ran toward the building as Goren slid to a stop, watching the church and waiting. Beside him, Eames trembled with fury. He glanced at her, bringing his hand over to touch her wrist. She looked at him, eyes filled with questions he had no answers for.

When five minutes passed and there was no explosion, Goren closed his eyes in relief, leaning back against the car behind him. He opened his eyes when a strong hand gripped his shoulder, looking into the captain's green eyes. "Good job, detective."

Deeply disturbed, Goren ran a hand through his hair. "What the hell is going on?"

Someone was targeting his partner. He looked at her. She was visibly shaken, and he did not blame her at all. He also felt like the rug had been yanked out from under him. His world had been set down precariously on its edge when his mother died, and he hadn't yet recovered his balance. This was making matters worse, but he understood how much more unsettling it was for Eames, to think that someone with a vendetta against her was out there stalking her. He leaned closer to her and spoke into her ear. "You are staying with me."

He would not take no for an answer, and his tone told her there was no room for discussion. But she was shaken enough that the thought of staying near him was comforting and no argument formed in her mind.


	3. Staten Island

Goren drove to Rockaway and, after checking the house for forced entry, he waited while Eames got her things together. As they drove back to the city, she said, "If I'm putting you out, Bobby, I can always go to stay with my folks or my sister..."

"You're not putting me out, and you're staying with me."

His response reassured her. She knew she would feel better with him nearby and she didn't press the issue. The rest of the ride to his apartment was silent.

* * *

Two hours later, she was sitting in the easy chair in his living room, finishing a plate of spaghetti he'd made for her. A half-empty glass of wine sat on the coffee table in front of her. He was laying on the couch with an open bottle of beer propped on his chest, staring at the ceiling. She lifted the wine glass and took a drink. "Who could be doing this? Who knows my wedding anniversary? And _why _are they doing it?"

Goren tipped his head up to take a drink, then dropped it back on the sofa cushion. "It's someone who knows you. Have you dated anyone recently?"

"Not in the last six months or so."

"Marriages...are a matter of public record. It wouldn't be hard to find out."

"But who remembers that I was married to Joe? Who remembers Joe, for that matter?"

He turned his head to look at her. "It's not a matter of who remembers him. And a lot of people do, Eames. It's a matter of who cares enough to use the memory of him against you, to strike out at you in such an emotional place. This is someone who's been slighted somehow, either actually or perceptually."

"So I may have pissed someone off to the point of wanting me dead without even knowing it?"

"Possibly." He took another drink and absently twisted the neck of the bottle with the fingers of his left hand. "Has anyone been...asking you out, repeatedly?"

"No."

"No one has shown any interest in you recently?"

"No."

He sighed and turned back to his thoughts. Eames finished her spaghetti and set the plate on the coffee table. She drained the wine glass and leaned back, still trying to think of anyone she might have inadvertently jilted. "Maybe it's someone we put away..."

"I already looked into that. No one has been released recently."

"What about Nicole?"

He shook his head. "This isn't her style. Her attacks are always on me, and this has never been her M.O. It's not her."

She stretched. "Do you mind if I shower?"

"Of course not. You can change in the bedroom. And...you can have the bed."

"I'm not going to..."

He raised a hand. "Please, Eames. Don't argue with me. Just take the bed."

She hesitated, considering pressing the issue but deciding against it. She got up from the chair and started for the hall, stopping when she got there. She turned toward him. "Thank you, Bobby."

He tipped his head back to look at her, and she could not help smiling at him. She had always loved the little things he sometimes did that gave her the feeling there was still a small boy somewhere inside him, wanting to peek out and see the world-at-large. Those small boy moments had all but vanished during his mother's final illness, and she was relieved to see them starting to resurface. His face softened at her smile. "I'm glad to do it," he replied.

She grabbed her bag from where he'd set it near the wall and disappeared down the hall. He drained his beer and set the empty bottle beside her wine glass. Again, he turned back to his thoughts. Initially, he had wondered who could possibly have something against Eames, but more and more he was beginning to wonder if she was the real target.

* * *

Goren sat at his desk with two reports in front of him. Eames returned from the break room and set a cup of fresh coffee in front of him. He reached for it without looking up, muttering a distracted thank you. "What do you have there?" she asked.

"Um, the reports on the explosive devices. The construction and components are almost identical." He shuffled the papers. "And the notes...they were printed on the same printer, on cardstock likely from the same package, or at least the same lot. There were no prints, nothing to give us any clues to the identity of the bomber." He rubbed his forehead. "We don't have much to go on."

"I'm not going to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder...and I'm not going to impose on you indefinitely. We have to find this guy."

"We will find him."

"On what evidence, Bobby? Or are we waiting for him to strike again?"

He returned his gaze to the papers in front of him. "I'll find him," he swore, almost to himself.

She knew better than to argue with him, but she shared his frustration. They didn't have much to go on. She sat at her desk and leaned toward him. "What are you thinking?"

He looked up. "What makes you think I have anything in mind?"

"I know you."

That was true. She did know him. As much as she might think he shut her out, no one knew him better, no one was closer to him than she was. He gathered his thoughts, then said, "There is a dearth of evidence, Eames. This is someone who knows how to cover his tracks."

"You think it's a cop?" she asked.

"I think it's someone who knows what they're doing. But don't say anything about that. Moran has thrown enough fits for the time being. I'd rather wait until I have more to go on. He doesn't care much for my hunches."

That much was true, but Eames had come to respect them. More than once, his hunches had led them down the right path to solving a case. In conjunction with the evidence they uncovered, those hunches helped them build solid cases. At the very least, what he thought would likely point them in the right direction. "You don't think it's someone we put away?"

"No. I don't."

"Why?"

He sighed, shuffling the papers again. "It's just...I don't get the feeling it's someone we've faced before. But it may be someone we know, someone we work with."

Her eyes widened. "Someone...we work with?"

"Shh," he encouraged at her raised voice. "We'll talk about it tonight. It's just a hunch, Eames. I have no evidence...just a feeling."

"That's enough for me."

"You aren't the person I have to convince. And I honestly have no idea who it could be."

She reached over and took one of the reports from his desk. "Okay. We'll talk about it later. When do you want to clue in the captain?"

"When we have something to clue him in about."

She nodded. The evidence they had was way too sketchy to bring to Ross. He wouldn't accept Goren's gut as any sort of evidence to build a case on. Deakins didn't accept it half the time. They had to keep looking.

* * *

Another week of juggling the little evidence they had led them nowhere. Saturday morning, Goren was woken by an unfamiliar scent. Perfume...He opened his eyes, squinting against the sunlight that poured in the living room window "Eames?"

"I'm sorry to wake you," she said softly. "You were still up when I went to sleep at one. When did you go to sleep?"

"I don't know. Around seven."

"It's just after nine. Go back to sleep. I'll be back tonight."

He sat up, half-confused, half-alarmed. "Tonight? Where are you going?"

"I told you, we're having a party today for my parents' fiftieth anniversary. My brother will be here in about a half-hour to pick me up."

"That's today?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. "Eames...I...I'm not sure about this..."

"Relax, Bobby. We rented a hall on Staten Island. It'll be fine."

"What hall?"

"Island Chateau, on West Fingerboard Road." She paused, studying him with a critical eye. He looked exhausted, and it occurred to her that he had been looking more and more exhausted as the week wore on. She had not seen him like this since his mother died. A little distraction might do him good. "Would you like to come with me?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Your date?"

She gave him a wicked smile. "Why not?" She laughed at the look on his face. "I'm joking, Goren. But you are welcome to join us. My parents like you, and I kind of do, too."

He smiled and got up from the couch. "Thank you, Eames, but I think I'll pass. I don't want to crash a family gathering. You have a good time."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

A half hour later, Eames left with her brother Kevin. Goren wandered around the apartment, trying to figure out if he missed Eames being there or if he was relieved to have some time alone. Deciding it was a draw, he laid down on the couch, trying to get a little more sleep. As far as he was concerned, for as long as she stayed with him, the bedroom was her space. He went in there for clothes, but otherwise he avoided it.

When he found himself unable to sleep, he got up, showered and went out for a walk. Returning to the building, he stopped in the lobby for the mail and took the stairs to his third floor apartment. As he climbed the stairs, he sorted through the mail. _Electric bill, car insurance, cable bill, junk, junk...wait a second... _There was something familiar about the last envelope in his hand. He unlocked the apartment and dropped the mail on the table just inside the door, with the exception of the last envelope. He walked to his desk and set it down. Sitting, he pulled on a pair of gloves and retrieved a letter opener. Slicing the envelope open, he carefully pulled out the familiar cardstock, his pulse hammering in his head. He pulled a pad of paper closer and read the printed words:

_Come to celebrate  
HappIness two score and ten  
All six offSpring gathered  
To bring joy back six-foLd and more  
Every child married sAve one  
All happily settled save oNe  
Until love finDs her again...never..._

He read the poem three times, his blood turning to ice. He swore and pulled out his phone, dialing as he grabbed his keys and ran out the door. Eames did not answer, so he dialed another number. Logan answered as he got to his car. "Hey, pal. What's up?"

"I'll be there in ten. Be ready."

"For what?"

"Just be ready. I'll explain on the way."

"On the way where?"

"Just be ready, dammit."

He closed the phone and tossed it onto the seat beside him as he pulled away from the curb, tires squealing when he floored the accelerator.

* * *

Eames rested her head on her father's shoulder as they danced to Luther VanDross' "Dance With My Father." It was the first chance they'd had to be relatively alone. "So why didn't Bobby come with you?" John asked. "I was hoping to see him."

"We had a really long week, Dad, and he wasn't up to it."

"What about you, sweetheart? You look tired."

She smiled. "I wouldn't have missed this for the world."

A commotion across the room interrupted their dance. Eames was surprised to hear her partner's voice as she turned toward the source of the commotion. Leaving her father's side, she hurried across the room to where Goren was talking in urgent tones to two of her brothers. She was surprised to see Mike Logan with him. "What's going on?" she demanded as she approached.

Goren stepped to her side, leaning down to speak quietly into her ear. The color drained from her face. "No..."

"We need to get everyone out, now."

She and her brothers worked with Logan to gather the children and usher everyone out of the building while Goren wandered off, deeper into the banquet room. Eames easily lost track of him, and it wasn't until everyone was gathered outside and the bomb squad arrived that she noticed Goren was nowhere in sight. She stepped to Logan's side. "Where's Goren?"

"I think he went looking."

"Looking for...no..."

She turned toward the building but before she could take even one step toward it, Logan read her intention and grabbed her arm, preventing her from making a dash for it. John approached them. "What's going on, Alex, and where did Bobby go?"

"There was a bomb threat, Dad, and I'm not sure where he got to. We think he's still in the building."

The local police cleared the area and cordoned off the building as members of the bomb squad went inside. Logan knew several of the officers present and he was able to talk them into letting him and Eames remain with them, rather than moving off down the block with everyone else. John had gone off in search of his wife to help reassure their grandchildren, amused to discover they thought the entire evacuation was great fun. Children loved excitement.

Eames stood by Logan, anxiously watching the building. When the front door opened and Goren came out, deep in conversation with a bomb squad member, she leaned against Logan, relieved. He moved his head closer to hers. "He makes life exciting, doesn't he?"

"I could do with a little less excitement," she said, moving away from him when her legs no longer felt like rubber.

Goren glanced up as she approached, finishing his conversation and excusing himself when they were done talking. He met her in the parking lot, his face apologetic and deeply troubled. "I am so sorry, Eames. I hated to interrupt your parents' party."

She frowned at him. "If the building had blown up, Goren, then you would have reason to apologize. Where was the bomb?"

"Under the grand staircase. It appears to have the same construction and the same materials as the last two. As soon as they finish removing the device, everyone can go back inside."

"Did you get another poem?"

He nodded. "It...came in the mail."

"In your mail? At your apartment? So this nut knows where you live?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Apparently."

She studied his face. "What else?"

"This time, he left a calling card, of sorts. On top of the bomb's timer, he placed a layer of plastic explosive. This one would have been bad if it had gone off. If he'd done this at the parking garage, it would have taken out the whole level instead of just a couple of cars. He apparently carried the device in his arms, pressed against his waist. The imprint of his belt was left in the plastic...along with part of a badge...I don't know if it was intentional or not, Eames, but it seems that this guy is a cop."


	4. The Bronx

Goren set a tumbler on the table in front of his partner. She was still shaken by the events of the day, and he felt for her. She was close to her family, and the day could have been a tragedy for all of them. She wrapped her hands around the glass and drank. He laid a gentle hand on the back of her head, then walked into the living room with his own glass and sat on the couch.

After a prolonged silence, she said, "Everyone was there. Everyone. My nieces and nephews, my parents, my brothers and my sister and their spouses. They said that bomb would have taken out the entire building. Bobby, who knew we were having that party?"

He opened his mouth to say something, but he was cut off by a knock at the door. When he answered it, Logan grinned at him. "Have I got a truck driver story for you."

Eames looked up from the table. "What are you talking about, Logan?"

"You know," he said as he came into the apartment. "A truck driver story. They all start with 'You ain't gonna believe this shit...'"

Eames rolled her eyes and took another drink. He continued as he went into the kitchen and got a beer from the refrigerator. "I just came from the squad room. A beautiful Saturday afternoon and Ross is up to his ears in crap from the chief." He pointed the neck of the bottle at Goren. "Guess who he likes for this?"

Eames stared at him, incredulous. "No. He's out of his mind."

"Whoever's sending those love notes is setting you up as a patsy, buddy."

Goren sighed heavily. "What possible reason could I have for harming my partner?"

"That's Ross' argument. He's as adamant about defending you as the chief is about blaming you. There were some real fireworks going off when I left. Both of 'em were mad enough to spit nails, so I played it smart and got the hell out of there."

Eames watched her partner as he returned to the couch, his face troubled. He took a drink, then turned to her, frowning. "You don't think..."

"That you are responsible? Don't be ridiculous. Of course not."

Logan dropped onto the opposite end of the couch. "Ross doesn't buy it either, but Moran's digging in his heels. I say, let's find this mutt so Ross can rub it in his face."

Eames was beginning to relax a little. "Do you think my family is safe?" she asked, voicing her deepest fear.

"Yes," Goren answered. "They'll be fine. I talked with your father and Kevin. They'll be vigilant, but this wasn't directed at them."

"No. It was directed at me. But why? Who could possibly have it in for me? After Joe died, I swore I wouldn't get involved with another cop, and I've pretty well kept that promise."

"Pity," Logan said, and she grabbed a salt shaker from the center of the table, throwing it at him. He caught it with a laugh.

Goren remained where he was, arms braced on his knees as he stared at the floor. "Uniforms don't carry their badges on their belts. Detectives do. Bomb squad members do. Crime scene techs do. Off duty cops do, sometimes. Particularly if they think they might need it. We should compare the imprint to other badges—fire department, transit cops, anyone else who might carry a badge. We need to cast a very wide net."

Eames looked at the glass in front of her. "Have you heard anything from CSU or the bomb squad?"

Logan shook his head. "Not yet, but the preliminary feedback says no prints."

Quietly, Goren said, "Our poet seems to be concerned with your relationship status, Eames."

"I told you, I haven't had a relationship in a long time."

He scratched his temple. "This seems to be someone who knows you...your anniversary...your family..."

"I don't know...maybe he looked in my desk, at my calendar..."

Goren lifted his head to look at her. "Are both those events on it?"

"Yes."

He sat up and grabbed his phone, dialing a number he knew by heart. Eames looked at Logan who shrugged. "He's your partner."

They listened to Goren's side of the conversation. "Steve, this is Goren. Are you busy? Really? I need a favor...prints...yes...in Eames' desk, her calendar...right...call me as soon as you know. Thanks."

When he closed the phone, Eames said, "You keep calling those boys in, and you're not going to win any popularity contests."

"I trust Steve. I got him the job."

Eames left the table and sat in the easy chair so she could see his face. "You trust him? Come on, Bobby. You don't think one of our crime scene guys is responsible, do you?"

"I don't know what to think, Eames. It could be anyone."

The room became silent as they pondered that possibility.

* * *

Two hours later, Goren's phone rang. He snatched it up, glanced at the caller ID and flipped it open. "Steve?" He listened in silence, his brow furrowed. "Okay...thank you...uh, no...could you keep this out of the channels and just leave it on my desk? Thanks."

Closing the phone, he looked at Logan and Eames. "There were smudged partials that don't belong to Eames or me, but not enough to get a hit on. Someone else was in your desk drawer, Eames."

"That's more than a little unsettling," she said. "Who and why?"

He ran a finger around the lip of his beer bottle. "I don't know. This is personal, Eames. I just haven't figured out how personal."

She stared at him for a minute. "What do you mean, how personal? This guy has tried to kill me three times!"

Slowly, Goren shook his head. "No. I don't think that was his intent. The clues. Every clue arrived in time for me to figure out where the bomb was. Whoever he is...he knew..."

He trailed off. Eames and Logan looked at each other, puzzled. "Knew what?" Logan asked.

Goren shook himself from his thoughts. "He knew I'd figure it out. He trusted...that Eames would be okay."

She met his eyes and Logan looked from one to the other, his brow cocked. "This last clue...he trusted the Post Office?"

Goren shook his head. "I don't think it was posted. The stamp was canceled with a pen. Some post offices will do that to stamps the machines miss, but I doubt the ones in the city do; they're too busy."

Logan's dark eyebrows arched. "He delivered it by hand?"

"Yes. And somehow, he must know that when I'm home I always get my mail early."

"What if you hadn't today?" Eames whispered. She leaned back and pulled her glass to her chest, acutely aware that the two men were watching her. "Do I have to tell you how unsettling this is?" she asked quietly.

"No," Goren answered. "No, you don't."

She knew he understood, both men did, but that did not make her rest any easier.

* * *

When they arrived at the squad room Monday morning, Eames sat down at her desk and took a file from her inbox. Goren sat across from her and opened an envelope from Steve at the crime lab. He studied the report in front of him. "Oh, geez..." Eames exclaimed.

Goren looked up at her. She was dusting off her hands. He arched an eyebrow. "What is it, Eames?"

She lowered her voice. "Fingerprint dust everywhere. Smack Steve for me."

He smiled and returned his attention to the report in his hands. When he pulled the papers from his inbox and shuffled through them, an envelope fell out onto his desk. He stared at it for a moment. "Eames," he said quietly as he pulled out a pair of gloves and snapped them on.

Her face paled. "No. Not another one..."

Pulling out a letter opener, he slit the envelope open and pulled out the cardstock, identical to the ones that had come before. He read the printed poem:

_Time to move on to other Things:  
Remember watches, pendants and Rings?  
New partners bondIng over a body on the floor  
The time is approaching to even the Score.  
Time is quickly running pasT  
To be successful you must move fAst  
To the place where iNsight did first reveal  
Devotion of a heart only She could heal._

His eyes scanned the odd capitalization. "Tristan's..." He jumped to his feet, shoving the card into an evidence bag and grabbing his coat. "Our first case...the owner of Tristan's Jewelry Store in the Bronx," he explained as they ran for the elevators.

Ross hurried out of his office, hands spread open. "What...?"

His unfinished sentence was met with shrugs. The other detectives in the squad were used to Goren's unpredictability and they admired Eames for being able to keep up with him. It was a general consensus that she was a rare breed of cop who was able to handle being partnered with the enigmatic genius of Robert Goren.

* * *

As Eames raced north, Goren called it in to the bomb squad and the captain. "The bomb squad will meet us there." He looked off into the distance, as he became lost in thought. "Manhattan...Queens...Staten Island...now the Bronx...He's targeting each Borough, Eames. The first three were directed solely toward you. Now...this one is directed toward both of us."

"Why? I don't get it."

"Either he knows us well or he's done his homework...or both. The last two targets he got from the pocket calendar in your desk, which means he has access to the squad room without calling attention to himself. He knows explosives..."

"Or he's smart enough to decipher a recipe off the internet."

He moistened his lips. "But he has access to plastic explosives." He looked at the note. "'To be successful you must move fast...' He's giving us less time, now that he knows we can read his clues."

She glanced at him for half a second. She'd read the poem in the elevator on the way to the parking garage. "The last two lines, Bobby. What do they mean?"

He stared at them, still unnerved by the implication. In answer to her question, however, he replied, "I don't know."

They arrived minutes ahead of the bomb squad and hurried into Tristan's. It was a small, family-owned jewelry store where the third in a series of small business owners had been murdered, bringing them together for their first case. Eames had been impressed by her new partner's intelligence and insight as much as she'd been disturbed by his crime scene tactics and odd mannerisms. He was a champ at making people ill-at-ease, including her.

For his part, Goren had been impressed by her ability to follow his lead and understand his seemingly erratic leaps of logic with few prompts. It didn't take much for her light bulb to go on, even if it paled beside his. Over the years, however, her light grew brighter, and he noticed. He noticed everything.

Inside the store, they wasted no time evacuating the patrons. Behind the counter, the middle-aged owner and her now-grown son watched in stunned silence until they, too, were ushered from the store. Eames led them out, quietly reassuring them. Once again, she expected her partner to be right behind her, since the bomb squad was there, its members suited and ready to go in. Leaving the owners with their patrons amid a growing crowd of bystanders, she returned to the bomb squad vehicle, looking for her partner.

When she couldn't find him, she looked toward the building, now swarming with bomb squad members. "Dammit, Goren..." she muttered under her breath.

Once Eames was headed for the door with the owners, Goren went in search of the device. It saved the bomb squad vital time if they knew where the device was when they arrived. He was already in the building, and his partner and the others were safe.

Whoever was placing these devices did not seem concerned too much with camoflauge. He always chose a seldom used area where routine discovery was unlikely, but it was always in a place where someone who was searching for it was likely to find it. And he did find it, in a back room, hidden in a small utility closet. He heard the bomb squad members enter the building a few moments after he located the device. It was the same as the one on Staten Island, complete with plastic explosives encapsulating the top of the device to render it more powerful, more destructive.

He called out to the bomb squad members, who were still in the front of the store. "It's back here, in the utility closet."

As the members of his squad rushed forward to do their job, the squad commander drew Goren out into the storefront. "Be very careful, detective. These devices are well-built. Whoever this is, he's serious. The last two devices were disarmed with little time to spare. If this continues, a time is going to come where we don't make it in time."

"I'll keep that in mind, sir."

He left the store, searching for his partner. When he found her, he knew by her posture and the fire in her eyes that she was not happy with him. He raised his hands as he approached. "We found it. They're disarming it now."

Her mouth was drawn into a tight line, but she didn't say anything. He averted his eyes, looking toward the ground. When the bomb squad members came out of the store, carrying the device, the partners watched them lock it away in the back of the containment truck. Eames talked briefly with the squad commander then headed for the SUV, knowing that, this time, Goren would be behind her.

The ride to Manhattan was silent. She was not inclined to speak and he did not want to do anything more to invoke her fury. He wasn't exactly sure what he'd done in the first place, but he was certain he'd find out eventually. Eames wasn't one to keep secrets.

When she parked the car in the garage at 1PP, she turned off the engine and turned to look at him. He did his best to look innocent. Pointing an accusing finger at him, she said, "For a man who thinks about everything, you do some stupidly impulsive things, do you know that?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean staying behind to look for the damn bomb, Bobby! That's not your job!"

He looked genuinely baffled. "Yes, it is. To serve and protect. That's my job. If I can give them an extra few minutes to defuse a device successfully, isn't that worth the lives it would save? I have enough blood on my hands, Eames. I don't need any more."

She tossed her hands in the air. "Fine, but what about..."

She stopped, and he leaned forward, head tilted in that way she had come to find endearing. "What about what?"

She shook her head. "Never mind."

He watched her get out of the car and sighed, following her to the squadroom. By the time they were done filing their reports and talking to the captain, the bomb squad had faxed over a preliminary report. The device was virtually identical to the three previous ones, and there was no trace at the scene. All they had to go on were the four notes and the badge imprint from the Staten Island device. It wasn't much.

* * *

Eames drove them home at the end of the day. She seemed to have gotten over whatever it was that had upset her. He understood why she was upset that he'd remained behind in the shop to search for the bomb, but he sensed there was something more to it. If she was not inclined to tell him, though, there was nothing he could do about it.

After a nice dinner and a relaxing shower, Eames felt refreshed. She sat on the couch with a glass of wine, listening to dishes clink in the kitchen as Goren finished cleaning up after the meal. She let her mind wander over the day's events. Drawn from her reflections when he came out of the kitchen, she looked at him as he sat on the opposite end of the couch with a freshly opened bottle of beer. Very softly, she said, "What about me?"

Silently, he stared at the beer in his hand. "I...I'm not sure what you mean."

"I mean, what about me? If you get your stupid ass blown up, what happens to me?"

He was still confused. "Um, you get another partner."

She stared at him, incredulous. "Do you think that's all you are to me? A partner? Damn you, Bobby!"

She threw the wine glass at him and stormed off into the bedroom, slamming the door. He sat there for a moment, stunned. What had just happened? He picked up the wine glass from the floor and set it on the table beside his beer. Rising to his feet, he walked down the hall to the bedroom and knocked on the door. Slowly pushing the door open, he stepped into the room. "Eames?"

She was laying on the bed, on his bed, and he stopped, staring at her. She turned over and glared at him. "What do you want, Goren?"

"I..." He was at a loss, shifting restlessly from foot to foot. He dropped his chin to his chest in defeat. "I...need a clean shirt."

He walked to the dresser and opened a drawer, pulling out a t-shirt. Yanking off his wine-soaked shirt, he dropped it into the hamper near the window. He slipped the shirt over his head as he headed for the door. "Sorry to disturb you."

"Are you really that obtuse?"

He paused by the door, frowning. "You think I'm obtuse?"

"Sometimes, absolutely. Bobby, your mind is a perpetual motion machine, and yet you miss things that are right in front of your face. Is that really all I am to you? Just a partner? So why the hell am I here?"

He turned to face her. "I know what I think, Eames...what I feel. But I can't, er, won't, uh...get inside your head. You once threatened to flay me alive if I ever tried to profile you. So I don't try. It's hard, but I don't."

She rose from the bed and stepped up to him, laying her hands against his chest. "Do you have to profile me to know that I care about you, that you're more than just a partner to me? How can you be so damn smart and so damn stupid all at the same time?"

She shoved him with both hands and returned to the bed, pulling the blanket around her and covering her head with a pillow.

He watched her, then hung his head again. He had no answer for her. Leaving the room, he returned to the living room and stayed awake for the rest of the night.


	5. Brooklyn

When Eames woke the next morning, she was still annoyed at her partner, but she was no longer angry. She showered and went into the living room. The smell of fresh coffee filled the room, making her smile. Her smile faded, though, when she saw four additional beer bottles on the coffee table beside the empty couch. Walking to the kitchen doorway, she stood there, watching as Goren, freshly showered and dressed only in sweatpants, took down two coffee mugs. As he turned away from the cabinet, he saw her standing there. He looked at her for a moment before turning to the counter beside the coffee pot. Preparing two cups of coffee, he added sugar to hers and milk to his. Silently, he held her coffee out to her. When she took it, he moved past her with his own cup and returned to the living room to sit on the couch.

She looked at the dark liquid in her cup before stepping into the kitchen to fix herself a bowl of cereal. Carrying it, and her coffee cup, to the table, she sat down and grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl in the middle of the table.

He hated the icy silence between them, and all he'd accomplished during the night was to come up with more questions and no answers. The problems he faced, including the sudden discord with his partner, overwhelmed him. He studied the empty beer bottles on the table. They'd given him neither insight nor reprieve, and now he wished he'd opted for stronger medicine.

When she finished her breakfast, she cleaned her dishes and joined him in the living room with a fresh cup of coffee. Still silent, she sat beside him on the couch. "Bad night?" she asked, not trying to keep the mixture of concern and irritation from her tone.

He nodded. "It's...hard...to shut down my mind." He flicked a finger at the neck of an amber bottle. "Sometimes, it helps slow me down."

She watched him wrap his fingers around his coffee cup, and she reached out, placing her hand lightly on his forearm. "Why do you doubt me? Is it really so damn hard for you to accept the fact that you mean a great deal to me, for reasons more important than our partnership?"

His jaw clenched and unclenched before he nodded, answering, "Yes."

She had not expected that answer. "Why?" she repeated.

He shook his head slowly. "I can't explain why. I don't know."

She brought her hand to rest over his. "You have such trouble seeing your own self-worth. The fact of the matter is that I do care about you, and I do think of you as a friend as much as a partner. I hate being shut out by you, and I hate when you can't see that you are worth caring about." She rubbed his hand lightly. "Get dressed. We have to leave soon."

Gently, she took the cup from his hands and returned to the kitchen. She set them both in the sink while he disappeared into the bedroom to change into a clean suit. When he came out, he stopped at her side and gently grasped her arm. "I'm sorry. I...I'll try harder."

With a tender smile, she moved closer and wrapped her arms around him. He tensed at the hug, but only for a moment. As he relaxed, he put his arms around her and, on an impulse, pressed his lips to the top of her head. "Let's go," he said softly. "Before Ross starts looking for us."

She tilted her head back, looking up at him for a moment before she stepped away. He followed her out of the apartment.

* * *

When they arrived at the squad room, Goren grabbed the top paper from his inbox and ran his eyes over the report. "It looks like our poet carries an NYPD badge."

"Does that surprise you?" Eames asked.

He shook his head as he set the paper aside. "That's what I thought it was."

"So a cop is out to get me..." she mused.

Goren pulled a file from the stack to his left and flipped it open. The location of the last bomb cast doubt in his mind on the presumed motivation of the bomber. Before that, he would have agreed with her, but why would he suddenly shift his target away from one solely directed at her? And why remove the emotional component of the target? He looked up at her, frowning. "Eames, does Tristan's hold any emotional significance to you?"

"Other than the fact it was our first crime scene, no. Not really."

"How significant is it to you that it was our first case?"

She thought about it. "I suppose you could make an argument for it, if you really tried. This particular partnership has come to mean a lot to me, and that was the start of it."

He was still having trouble forcing Tristan's into the picture that was forming in his head, blurring the fledgling profile that had begun to piece itself together. With a growl of frustration, he slammed the file shut, got up and walked away from his desk.

Eames watched him leave the squadroom before reaching across the desks to retrieve the file he'd left behind. Logan approached her. "Hey, what happened?"

She shook her head. "He's frustrated."

"Can't get into this mutt's head, huh?"

"No."

Logan leaned against her desk. "Think he's too close to it?"

She shook her head. "No, I don't think that's the problem. Maybe the perp knows him well enough to know how to knock him off balance. This last scene has muddied the water for motive."

Logan nodded. "So he was finally getting a handle on him and now his grip's slipped?"

"Kind of, yes."

"I can't blame him for getting frustrated, especially with you being the target."

Eames shuffled through the file and pulled out the latest poem. "Read this," she said, handing it to him.

When he raised his eyebrows, she knew he'd gotten to the last two lines. "How do you interpret those last two lines, Mike?"

"I think maybe this guy knows you two better than we thought. He's either privy to the rumor mill, or he's...observant."

Eames frowned, confused. "Observant? What do you mean?"

Logan grabbed a chair and brought it up beside her, leaning in close and speaking softly. "It's no secret that he had a rough childhood, with a sick mom and a deadbeat dad. I speak from experience when I tell you that has a lifelong impact on a guy, especially a sensitive one like he is. I know I wasn't around here back when you became partners, but I've heard about things from guys who were. He's not the same man he was when you met him, Alex. You have to see that. Now I don't know if anyone can ever heal the damage that was done to him when he was a kid, but you've sure got a good head start on the rest of the world."

He patted her shoulder and rose. Returning the chair to its place, he walked back to his desk.

* * *

When Goren returned to his desk, neither of them said anything about his sudden departure. As the day wore on with no progress on the case, Goren's frustration grew and so did his irritability. The ride home at the end of the day was uncomfortably silent. As soon as they entered the apartment, Eames went to the bedroom to change while Goren pulled off his jacket and his tie, poured himself a drink and sat silently on the couch, lost in thought.

Eames came out of the bedroom ten minutes later, going straight into the kitchen, where she made herself a sandwich. Finally breaking the long silence as she came out into the living room, she said, "Maybe I should just go home."

He shook his head. "Not until we catch this guy."

"And if we never catch him?" she snapped. "I am not staying here indefinitely, Goren."

"I'm trying, Eames! I have a hell of a lot of pressure on me to get him and almost nothing to go on! Suppose...suppose I can't figure this guy out? Suppose we don't make it on time to the next one and it detonates? That changes everything. Right now he's guilty of intent. He hasn't hurt anyone, so he might get ten years. If someone gets hurt, or killed, then he's looking at twenty-five to life, at a minimum. On top of that, how do I live with that failure? Or worse, suppose something happens to you?"

"Oh, is that an issue for you? But it can't possibly be an issue for me, can it?" She came around the couch to face him, unable to contain her fury. "Explain this to me, Goren, because I'm not quite understanding it. If I get worried about you getting your stupid ass blown to kingdom come, I'm being unreasonable because I can always get another partner. But it's perfectly reasonable for _you_ to worry about me getting injured or killed...why? Because you can't get another partner? Is that what this all boils down to? Our suitability for new partners?"

He looked hurt. "When you put it that way..."

She glared at him and he fell silent. "When I put it that way? What other way is there to put it? It's not all about you, dammit!"

"No," he snapped back, angrily launching himself to his feet. "It's about you."

She faced off against him, trembling with the effort to contain her anger. "About _me_? How is it about me? It's about the impact it would have on _you_ if something happened to me. If it was about me, you would be more careful about your damn life because _that_ would have an impact on me!"

He ran his hand through his hair and turned away from her, but she grabbed his arm and spun him back. "Don't turn away from me! We are going to work this out right now." She moved her hand back and forth between them. "This partnership is supposed to be a two-way street. When the hell did that change?"

"It didn't. I..." He cast his eyes down toward the floor and stopped talking.

She was still trembling, but her anger suddenly faded as she realized something fundamental about him. "You can't see it, can you?"

Her question caught him off-guard. He stood there, staring at her. "See what?"

She returned his stare, wondering how he could possibly be so clueless about personal matters. She was tempted to turn and walk away, very tempted. How many years had he spent shutting her out? Knowing how sensitive he was to her, though, she couldn't find it in her to do that to him. "You just cannot see that you are worth caring about." She stepped up to him, balling her fists and bringing them to rest against his chest. "You are frustrating, and infuriating...stubborn as hell...withdrawn...very private..." She pressed her forehead into the center of his chest, surprised at the rate of the heart thrumming against his ribcage. She opened her hands and gathered the fabric of his shirt into her fists. Her voice became soft and he had to strain to hear her. "But you're also kind, gentle...and loving, when you want to be. I wish it was more often. But I can't make you into someone you're not."

She stepped away, walked down the hall to the bedroom and closed the door. He was tempted to follow, but he was so tired of fighting with her. The last thing he wanted at the moment was to alienate her any further. He sat on the couch and spent another sleepless night pondering her words and trying to figure out some way to make things right again.

* * *

Eames tossed and turned restlessly all night. She hated being at odds with Goren, and she knew he didn't handle it very well. She finally had enough and got out of bed well before dawn. Glancing at the bedside clock, she snorted irritably. Almost four in the morning. She pulled on her robe and wandered into the living room.

He moved on the couch. "What's wrong?" he asked softly.

She crossed to the couch and sat beside him, gently grasping his hand. "This case is taking its toll on both of us. I'm sorry I snapped at you like I did. I understand your worries; I really do. I know what a hard time you have with other people and how important I am to you. But I need you to understand that I care about you, too. Please, don't dismiss your importance in my life."

He slipped his hand from hers and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her against him. "I don't always show it, but I need you. The threat this case has brought against you has rattled me. When you were missing last year, I damn near lost my mind. Eames...Alex...not finding this guy is not an option for me."

She nestled her head against him. "I'm scared, and I hate being scared." She pressed herself deeper into his arms. "I'm scared for both of us."

"I'll take care of you,' he promised.

"I don't doubt that, but what about you?"

"I'll be fine...as long as you are." He paused. "Eames, do you really want me to be someone I'm not?"

She sighed. He never missed anything. She laid her hand in the center of his chest, over his heart. "No, Bobby. I love you just the way you are."

"You...you love me?"

"Yes, you oaf. I do."

He settled back, unexpectedly comfortable holding her close. When she leaned into him more heavily, he realized she was asleep. He eased himself back to a semi-reclining position, and she snuggled into him in her sleep. He could not help but notice how perfectly she fit into the curve of his body and he softly sighed. He felt more relaxed than he had in a long time. Kissing her forehead lightly, he whispered, "I love you, too, Eames."

He turned his active mind back to the case, dozing intermittently until it was time to wake Eames and get ready for work.

* * *

It had been a very long week. The chief was constantly harassing Ross about the lack of progress on the case, prompting the captain to put two more teams on it. He hoped it would take some of the pressure off Goren, who was showing the strain. Twice Eames had effectively argued her partner back onto the case when Ross was on the verge of taking him off it. The tension he'd noticed between the partners earlier in the week had thankfully dissipated, but Goren was still frayed at the edges and Ross was afraid he was going to unravel completely.

Eames was very worried about Goren. He did not handle failure well and the case was beating him down. Facing another weekend to ponder an unresolved case might be more than his jangled nerves could take. When he told her he was fine, she simply did not believe him. He was anything but fine, and she was the only thing holding him together.

* * *

When they got home from work Thursday night, Eames went to take a shower and Goren sat on the couch, reviewing his case notes, such that they were. He looked at the clock. Quarter till eight. He propped his elbow on the arm of the couch and rested his head on his hand. Deeply fatigued, he drifted off, stirring when he felt her fingers weave into his hair. But before she could say anything, there was a knock at the door.

He turned his head to look at her, and he gave her a small smile before getting up and going to the door. An elderly lady smiled at him from the hallway. "Hello, Robert."

He smiled back at his elderly neighbor. "Hello, Mrs. Santini."

"Somebody dropped this off for you this afternoon while you were at work."

"Thank you."

She watched him look at the envelope, and the color drained from his face. He moved closer to her. "Mrs. Santini, _who _dropped this off?"

Her brow furrowed. "A young man...dark hair, shorter than you, and smaller. Glasses. Very nice. He was very insistent that I make sure you get this before ten o'clock."

"Do you think you would recognize him again if you saw him?"

She nodded. "I'm certain I would."

He nodded and gently squeezed her arm. "Thank you. I'll be in touch."

"You and your girlfriend should come for dinner soon," she said with a smile as he turned back toward his door. "She's cute."

He smiled. "She's my partner."

"She's still cute, and she should be your girlfriend."

"Good night, Mrs. Santini."

She started down the hall back to her apartment. "Good night, Robert."

Closing the door, he went to his desk and grabbed a pair of gloves, opening the letter. "What's that?" Eames asked as she crossed the room. She saw the envelope and the gloves he'd snapped on. "Oh, God, no. Not again."

He read the card out loud:

_Let's try something different. A treasure hunt of sorts.  
Nautilus.  
Hispaniola.  
Jolly Roger.  
Pequod.  
The world accepts as unforgivable sin...  
Figure it out, detective. The game's afoot. You have until ten o'clock tonight._

Eames closed her eyes and tipped back her head, fighting with her emotions. Goren began to pace, tapping the card against his right hand, softly repeating each name to himself. _"Nautilus_. _Hispaniola_. _Jolly Roger_. _Pequod_." He stopped, thinking. "Ships. They're ships, Eames."

"Ships? So the bomb's down at the docks, or in the harbor?"

"No...no...fictional ships. _Nautilus _is Captain Nemo's ship in _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea_. The _Hispaniola _is Smollet's ship in _Treasure Island_. _Jolly Roger _is Hook's ship in _Peter Pan _and the _Pequod _is Ahab's ship in _Moby Dick_. All fictional ships."

"So where do we go looking for Moby Dick and Peter Pan?"

He smiled briefly. "It's a treasure hunt, Eames. The treasure is the next bomb."

"It's on a boat?"

"Fictional ships...books..." He cocked his head and looked back at the card. "Holmes..."

"Holmes, as in Sherlock? 'The game's afoot', right?"

He nodded. "A book store or a library..." He stared past her and his eyes took on a faraway look that she knew well. Pieces were falling into place for him. "There's only one borough left...and it's time for a change." He grabbed his keys. "Call the bomb squad. Tell them to meet us at the Canarsie Branch of the Brooklyn Public Library."

She hurried out the door after him, pulling out her phone. By the time she finished making the call, they were in the car. She put the phone in her pocket and grabbed the door handle as he took a corner without braking. "Do you want to...uh, slow down, first, and then tell me what's going on?"

He hesitated for half a block before easing off the accelerator. "He's been playing with us. Now, it's time for a change. Now he's getting serious."

She stared at him. "He hasn't been serious?"

"Not like this. No. You have never been his target."

"Never...what are you..." She trailed off as she started putting the pieces together also. "Canarsie...you grew up in Canarsie."

"Yes. I did."

"What makes you think the bomb is at the Canarsie library?"

He tapped his binder. "'The world accepts as unforgivable sin...'"

When she looked at him blankly, he said, "Don't make me sing it."

She frowned. "What?"

"Think Meredith Wilson. _The Music Man_..."

She closed her eyes. "Marian the Librarian..."

"My mother was a librarian at the Canarsie library before she got too sick to work."

"A librarian's son. That explains the love of books."

He smiled and took another corner. She caught her breath then smacked his arm. "If I want to go on a thrill ride, I'll go to Coney Island. Now slow the hell down."

Again he eased off the accelerator. It took what felt like forever before he slammed on the brakes in front of the library and bolted from the car. Eames chased him into the building.

As Goren spoke to the librarian at the reference desk, Eames began quietly telling people to leave the building. She did not miss the urgency in her partner's tone as he explained the situation. The woman paled, then got up from the desk and hurried off to assist Eames with the evacuation.

When officers from the local precinct arrived, Eames charged them with responsibility for the evacuation and hurried off in search of her partner. She wasn't going to make the same mistakes she'd made before by leaving him alone in the building. She found him in the fiction section, scanning the letter in his hands. "Lost?"

He glanced at her. "I-I'm missing something."

She looked at her watch. Nine thirty-seven. "Let the bomb squad do their job."

He waved her off. "Go outside, Eames."

"As soon as we find the bomb. I'm not leaving you again."

Annoyed, he turned away, returning his attention to the letter as he muttered, "_Peter Pan. Treasure Island. Moby Dick. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea._ Ships...the ocean...a...a search..." He trailed off.

Eames watched and waited. He was thinking, connecting, concluding... "Uh, ships...come on!"

She chased him again, this time down the stairs to the main floor and across the lobby toward the children's section. He grabbed her arm as she slid to a stop beside him. "See if the bomb squad is here yet."

She stared into the corner of the children's section, where a reading area was separated from the rest of the section. It was decorated in a nautical theme, and in the corner of the area, well camouflaged by a lighthouse, fishing nets and a shipwreck, was the device they sought. And directly in front of the device, playing inside the shipwreck, sat a toddler, banging on it with the bottle in his hands.


	6. A Positive ID

Eames ran toward the front of the library to see if the bomb squad had arrived and suited up. Goren looked at his watch. Nine fifty-four. He wondered where the baby's mother was as he hurried toward the reading area. "Hey, buddy," he said to the boy, who looked at him and smiled.

"Bang, bang!" he said as he slammed his bottle against the side of the bomb again.

Goren reached down and held out his hands. "Let's not play 'bang, bang' right now. Come on. I'll take you to Mommy."

The boy looked at the man's open hands and then at his face. Shoving the nipple of the bottle in his mouth, he stood and toddled into the cop's arms. Goren lifted him against his chest, glancing at the device when something shifted in the corner of his vision. A red light came on near the detonator. Urgent voices drew his attention toward the front of the library as four bomb squad members hurried toward him. The first one to arrive took one look at the device and swore. "Get the hell out of here, detective! Now!"

Goren wasted no time leaving the area and hurrying toward the front of the building. His watch read nine fifty-six. Eames met him on the sidewalk, where she was comforting a sobbing young woman Goren correctly assumed was the little boy's mother. "Sammy!"

He placed the child in his mother's arms and ushered both women away from the building. Eames grabbed his arm. "What's wrong?"

He shouted instructions to the local uniformed officers to get the civilians as far away from the building as possible. He leaned closer to his partner as they helped the officers. "The device is in final countdown. They can't disarm it. They will have to risk moving it to the containment truck."

"Did you see any plastic explosive on this one?"

"No."

Halfway down the block, Goren stopped to turn and watch the four men hurrying the device toward the containment truck. His watch read nine fifty-nine. The men locked down the truck and scrambled away from it. Goren positioned himself between Eames and the truck as he said, "The last thing they want to do is handle the device, but they had no choice this time. It was armed and they had less than five minutes to contain the blast."

A muffled, subsonic rumble filled the air as the device within the truck detonated. Goren's watch read ten o'clock. It had been a very close call.

"Bobby," Eames said as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Could the baby have set it off?"

He looked at her. "Yes," he answered, walking back toward the library when one of the ordinance techs motioned to him.

Eames looked over her shoulder to where the young mother, who had been ushered out of the building against her will, hugged her little son and tried to stop sobbing. Casting another glance toward Goren's retreating form, she went to comfort the crying woman.

* * *

It was nearly midnight when Goren and Eames made their way to the SUV. Eames was exhausted, but she was afraid her partner was on the verge of collapse now that the adrenaline was working its way out of his system. She held out her hand for the keys, and he offered no argument as he set them in her hand.

She started the car and looked at him. He waved a hand wearily. "I'm okay," he insisted.

She pointed a finger at him. "Dammit, Bobby, if you don't sleep tonight, I swear I'm going to see Rodgers about a sedative. You are going to collapse."

"Just drive, Eames."

He was in no mood to talk. This one had been way too close. They almost didn't make it and that still had him rattled. But Eames was right about one thing. He was on the verge of collapse. He could feel it. He was barely functioning, and if he didn't sleep, his body was not going to give him any choice in the matter. Looking out the window, he watched lights and buildings and cars slip by, and the interior of the car began to spin. He closed his eyes against the nauseating motion and it faded away.

* * *

When Eames pulled up outside his apartment and cut the engine, he didn't move. "Bobby?"

He groaned softly and, with enormous effort, forced his eye open. Squinting out the window he murmured, "Where'd the water come from?"

She looked down the block. "Water? What water? Oh...come on, Goren. Let's get you inside. You're so damn stressed out and exhausted you're seeing things."

He looked at her and blinked. "What?"

If she wasn't so worried about him, she would be amused. She wondered just how long he'd been running on pure adrenaline. She guided him successfully up to the apartment and across the living room to the couch. Coaxing him to lay on the couch, she teased his hair with a light touch and he was out again. She was relieved that he was finally sleeping, but she was still worried. He was going to continue to push himself to the limits of his endurance until one of two things happened. Either they'd catch the guy or he'd push himself too far. Leaning down, she brushed her lips over his forehead. "Sleep well, partner."

* * *

Eames was up early, and she called Ross after checking on Goren. "Have you heard anything from anyone since I talked to you last night?" she asked when he answered the phone.

"Are you serious, Eames? The chief is so angry he can't form a coherent sentence. What the hell is going on?"

She was quiet for a moment. "Captain, we need to talk. Could you come here? We're not going to make it in this morning."

Ross didn't answer immediately. "Are you still at Goren's?"

"Yes."

"I'll be there at seven-thirty."

"See you then."

She closed the phone and watched her partner sleep on the couch. She wasn't about to wake him up, not when he so desperately needed the sleep. She fixed a pot of coffee and scrambled some eggs for breakfast. She'd just finished washing her dishes when a knock sounded at the door, and she let Ross in."Good morning, captain."

"Hello, Eames." He looked at Goren, still sleeping deeply. "I'm glad to see him sleeping."

"His body didn't give him much choice. He was running on adrenaline, and when it crashed, so did he."

"Good."

"Coffee?"

He nodded. "Please."

She got his coffee and joined him at the table, setting the latest message from their bomber on the table beside him. He read it, then looked at her. "He figured this out?"

"Yes. We got it around 8. Our suspect left it with his neighbor. She told Bobby she would recognize him."

"Bring her down to the squad room and let her leaf through the books and work with one of the sketch artists."

"We'll bring her down this afternoon. He needs a couple of hours."

Ross nodded. "I'll put off the chief until you get in. Just beware—he's on the warpath and your partner is at the top of his list."

"What else is new?"

He smiled. "I'll see you this afternoon. Thanks for the coffee."

She walked him to the door and, once he was gone, she went down the hall to Mrs. Santini's apartment. When the door opened, the older woman smiled. "Well, hello, dear. You are Robert's friend."

"Yes. My name is Alex Eames. Mrs. Santini, he told me that you would recognize the man who gave you that letter for him yesterday. Would you mind coming with us to our office this afternoon to look at some pictures?"

"I would be glad to."

Eames smiled. "I'll come to get you after lunch."

"Is Robert all right? He looked so tired when I saw him last night."

"We've had a very long week, but he's all right. I'll see you after lunch."

She returned to the apartment and fixed another cup of coffee. Arranging the five notes from the bomber on the table in front of her, she studied them. Why had he taken such a departure from his pattern? She had been the target of the first three bombs, but then something had changed. No wonder Goren was floundering. And yet, he seemed to be more comfortable with the circumstances surrounding the last two bombs, the ones that did not specifically target her. He seemed now to be settling into a communion with the perp; he finally had a path that led into the guy's head, one he could not find when she was the target. She found it troubling that he could so easily find his way when he seemed to be the one in danger. Was it because he allowed his emotions to cloud his focus when she was in danger? Or was it simply because he could not get a handle on anyone who would target her? He could envision himself as a target. He could not do the same with her. The prom queen or the screw-up? Why would another cop target a well-liked fellow officer?

She caught her breath. Why would someone target her? To get to him...She was never the target. It was always him. The bomber used her to get to him, and it worked. It had to be someone who knew them well enough to know that she was the quickest way to strike hard and deep at her partner.

"Eames?"

Drawing herself from her thoughts, she turned toward his voice. He was sitting on the couch, disheveled but not as utterly worn out. "You look better. How do you feel?"

"Better." He nodded at the file spread out across the table. "What's up?"

"I had an idea. Get a cup of coffee and sit here with me."

He stood up and ran his hand over his hair. Getting a cup of coffee, he sat beside her. She tapped the fourth letter, about the Bronx site. "Something changed here."

He nodded. "He revealed his target," he said softly. "You were never the target. That was my stumbling block."

"He used me to get to you."

"And he got me good. What I can't figure out is what he has planned next. He's out of boroughs."

"Maybe he'll head into Jersey next."

He smiled. "Two boroughs. He'll choose one of two boroughs as his grand finale. Manhattan or Brooklyn."

"What makes you say that...and why do you think that's the end of it?"

"This last one...we almost didn't make it, and he planned for that. He still trusted we'd get there in time. He might have planned for Mrs. Santini to deliver the letter sooner, but he still trusted we'd get it in time. I think he's got one more planned."

"Why?"

"That I don't know."

"You think you're the target."

He nodded. "Yes. I do." He stood. "I don't know anything more about his motive. I-I'm going to shower and we'll go in to work."

She grasped his arm. "Slow down. I talked to Ross this morning. We're going to bring Mrs. Santini in after lunch to look at some pictures and work with one of the sketch guys." She tightened her grip. "It won't hurt you to lay down for a little while longer."

He looked at her and she nodded encouragement. "Thank you," he said softly.

She watched him return to the couch. He didn't specify what he was thanking her for and she didn't ask. The details did not matter, to either of them.

* * *

Gabriela Santini sat at Goren's desk, examining the faces in the book in front of her. Goren sat beside her watching her reactions to the photos while they waited for the sketch artist to arrive; he was running late.

Kenny Moran had already been there, expressing his opinion of the flawed theory that an NYPD officer was involved. It was an all too familiar song and dance to Goren, but he didn't argue with the man. He averted his eyes as Moran yelled and ranted, shaking his head at Eames when he sensed an objection brewing in her. Ross argued the point and Moran stormed out, casting a suspicious glare at the older Italian woman sitting at Goren's desk.

Goren didn't say anything to Eames or Ross. He grabbed a couple of mug shot books, knowing instinctively that his neighbor would not find any familiar faces among those pages. Eames sat down at her desk when Mrs. Santini was a third of the way through the first book. "So many faces," she said.

"Just do your best," Eames encouraged with a smile.

Mrs. Santini looked around the room and took a drink of the tea Goren had gotten for her. She turned in the chair, looking around the squad room with interest. She'd never been in a police squad room before. Sunddenly, she sat up a little taller. She moved her hand to set the coffee mug on the desk, missing its edge and dropping the mug to the floor, where it broke. "Mrs. Santini?" Goren's voice expressed concern.

"There he is, Robert. By the elevator, with the glasses and the dark hair, in the blue shirt. That's him."

Goren looked toward the elevators. "You're certain?"

"Absolutely."

Goren looked at his partner half a second before he launched himself from his desk and ran toward the elevator.

Waiting for the elevator, the man looked around, noticing when Goren bolted from his desk with Eames right behind him. When he saw Goren's neighbor at his desk, his face filled with panic and he ran. He hit the stairwell and charged down the stairs. Goren was not far behind him.

Ross hurried out of his office. "What the hell...?"

He ran to the elevator where Eames was punching the button. "What's going on, Eames?"

"We got a positive ID. It's Eddie MacIlvey, one of our crime scene guys."

The elevator opened and Ross followed her in. "He's in the mug books?"

"No. He was waiting for the elevator when Mrs. Santini saw him."

"And your partner?"

"Chased him into the stairwell. I'm trying to cut him off from below."

"A crime scene tech...damn if he wasn't right again. It is a cop."

"And the chief was wrong again. Imagine that."

Ross allowed her a small smile. "That's why you and Goren are on the streets solving cases and he's behind a desk signing forms."

The elevator doors opened into the lobby. As Ross pulled out his phone and called in an order to lock down the building and search for the suspect, Eames grabbed a nearby officer she knew. "Chuck, did you see my partner come out of the stairwell?"

"No, Eames. I haven't seen him at all."

"Don't let anyone into the stairwell."

Guns drawn, Eames and Ross entered the stairwell, pressed themselves against the wall and looked up. There was no movement, no noise. "Bobby?" she called.

She did not get an answer.

Cautiously, Eames and Ross began to ascend the stairs. They found Goren laying on the third floor landing, struggling back to consciousness. Ross went through the door onto the third floor as Eames knelt beside her partner, who rolled onto his back and insisted he was okay.

Ross was back a few minutes later. "He's gone. How are you, detective?"

"I'm all right."

She and Ross helped him to sit up and he laid his hand on his temple, where a bruise was rapidly forming. "He got ahead of me. When I rounded this level, I got slammed with the door." He leaned back against the wall. "Eddie...We have to find him before he has a chance to set another bomb."

Squatting beside him, Ross said, "Do you think he's going to set another one?"

"Yes. I'm certain of it. I think he has one more planned. But he never expected to be identified."

"So Eames..."

He fell silent when both detectives began to shake their heads. "No, captain," Eames said. "I am not the target. I never was."

Ross frowned. "What do you mean you're not the target?"

Goren slowly got to his feet, supported by Ross and Eames. "I am his target."

Ross studied him. "So what do we do to protect you?"

Goren frowned, looking at the captain in confusion. "Protect me?"

Eames watched the exchange in amusement, knowing exactly how it was going to play out. Ross said, "When we thought it was your partner in danger, you took her home with you to protect her. Since you are obviously the one in danger, where do we put you to protect you?"

"At my apartment. I don't need protecting."

Ross was not surprised. They left the stairwell and took the elevator from the third floor back to the eleventh. "Maybe you should stay with Logan, or with me."

"I'm not staying anywhere but my own apartment," Goren replied. "Thank you, but no."

"Goren..."

He shook his head as he stepped from the elevator and walked to his desk, dismissing Ross' concern. Eames couldn't hide her amusement. "Forget it, captain. He won't agree to it. My partner has the invincibility complex of a teenager."

"Continue to stay with him, then, Eames. You already have your foot in the door."

She nodded in agreement. "We should probably take Mrs. Santini home. We'll go back over the evidence we have, now that we have a suspect. Maybe something else will crop up that wasn't evident before."

"Call me if you find anything. I'll take the time to go upstairs and let the chief know we have a suspect. He's not going to be too happy to find out he got out of the building before we could seal all the exits."

"Have fun with that."

"Keep an eye on your partner."

As she headed back to her desk, she tried to count how many times she'd heard him say that since he became captain of the squad. She sat at her desk, watching with further amusement as Goren tried to convince Mrs. Santini he was fine. "I told Ross we were going to take Mrs. Santini home," Eames informed him.

He nodded as he gathered his things, including the file on the bombings. As they waited for the elevator, Eames stepped close to Goren's side. "You okay?"

"Yes."

"We have a suspect."

"And I let him get away."

Eames reached up and poked the bruise on his temple. "Ow," he complained, pulling away and glaring at her.

"Then don't start. Ross is sending the other teams out to look for him. We can join the search after we drop off Mrs. Santini."

As they drove toward his apartment building, Goren looked out the window at the city, reflecting on the impossible task before them. They were searching for one man in a city of eight million. And they were not going to find him.


	7. A Motive for Murder

Goren walked Mrs. Santini to her door, bracing his hand on the wall as he leaned closer to her. "Maybe you should stay with Marcus for a couple of days, Mrs. Santini. I-I'll drive you to his house."

She looked at him. "Why do you think that's necessary, Robert?"

He pressed his lips together in a tight line. "You just identified a man who didn't want to be identified, and he knows you live here. I don't want anything bad to happen to you, and you will be safe with your son."

She gave that some thought as she unlocked her door. "Give me five minutes to pack a bag."

He nodded. "I'll wait here."

Eames poked her head out the door of the apartment when he didn't join her. "Problem?"

"Uh, we're going to take Mrs. Santini to Queens. Her son lives in Flushing."

She nodded. "That's a good idea. Logan just called from Eddie's house in the Bronx."

"And?"

The door in front of him opened as she answered, "Later."

He took the bag from his neighbor's hand and waited for her to lock the door. Eames watched them approach her and said, "Maybe I should..."

He knew she was going to suggest meeting him at the suspect's home and he shook his head, gently interrupting her. He had an irrational need to keep her close. "It's all right, Eames. Just lock it up so we can get going."

She met his eyes, seeing a rare look that gave her no room for argument. She pulled the door closed and locked it, returning his keys to him. His fingers brushed hers as he took them, his dark eyes still locked with her bright ones. In the span of half a minute they'd disagreed, connected and resolved the matter of temporarily going separate ways, all without saying a word. Mrs. Santini missed the entire exchange. As they walked to the elevator, she began chatting about Samson, her son's Rottweiler. He looked at Eames and she rolled her eyes playfully and gave him a smile. He was reassured.

* * *

As they pulled away from Marcus Santini's Flushing home, Goren asked. "What did Logan say?"

"We need to go to the Bronx. He said we have to see this. That's all he'd tell me."

"I hate when he plays games."

She rubbed her palm over the steering wheel as she waited for the light to change. "I don't think he's playing, Bobby." She hesitated. "He said we'd never believe it and should see it for ourselves."

He huffed impatiently and she fell silent, focusing on the street in front of her as she drove through the intersection, heading toward the Throg's Neck Bridge, which would take them into the Bronx. The tone in Logan's voice, devoid of all sarcasm and teasing, disturbed her and she was apprehensive about what they would find when they got to Eddie MacIlvey's house.

* * *

Flashing lights overwhelmed the quiet neighborhood as they pulled up in front of the small house in the Silver Beach neighborhood of the borough. Logan was waiting for them. He looked from one partner to the other as he said, "Apparently, he grew up in this house, and he inherited it when his folks died, about ten years ago. Neighbors say he keeps to himself mostly but he's a nice enough guy. Sound familiar?"

"They're all nice guys," Eames commented drily.

Logan nodded and went on. "We called in the local CSU instead of using our own, for obvious reasons. His shop is in the basement, but most of his supplies are gone. It doesn't look like he was planning to have any more fun after this one."

Goren shook his head. "He got here first. He's going to place one more bomb, and he's probably got it with him."

"You may be right. Kid down the street said he was here about an hour ago, and he put something in his car and took off again. Maybe it was another device; maybe it was a box of car parts. We have no way of knowing. Anyway, it's a tidy house. We didn't find anything out of the ordinary, until we got to the closet in his bedroom. Come on. What I've got to show you is in the kitchen now."

They followed him into the house. Goren scanned the living room, which was just as Logan described it: tidy. They passed through a small hallway into the kitchen at the back of the house. A file box was sitting in the center of the kitchen table, beside a set of salt and pepper shakers shaped like little dogs and a napkin holder decorated with flowers and a cow.

Logan pulled a file folder from the box and set it on the table. Goren flipped it open and stared at the newspaper clippings within. He heard his partner's soft exclamation and reflexively tensed when her hand came to rest on his back. "Joe," she whispered.

The folder was filled with newspaper articles about Joe Dutton's murder and funeral. Beneath the articles were pictures. Too late, he realized they were crime scene photos and pictures of the funeral. His eyes came to rest on the stoic widow, flanked by her father and her brother Kevin. He sifted through the photos quickly enough to satisfy his curiosity without overexposing his partner to the painful memories. "I-I'm sorry," he murmured.

Choked up with enough emotion to render her unable to speak, she pressed her hand more firmly into his back in response. He pulled out another folder and opened it, entirely unprepared for its contents. There were only a few clippings, brief obituaries of a long and deeply troubled life, and more pictures of another, much more recent funeral. This time, the photos showed a drawn and stoic son, flanked by his partner and his friend as he buried his mother. His brother had not bothered to show up to their mother's funeral, but Eames and Logan were there. A tremor coursed through him and her hand moved to close on his arm. He slapped the file closed.

Logan watched closely as his clearly rattled friend took out another folder. He knew that one-by-one, Goren would remove each folder, regardless of the contents of the one before, until he'd reviewed the contents of every folder in the box. Eames would stand beside him for every photo, every clipping. Always, she stood beside him, to catch him every time he stumbled, to support him every time he faltered.

There were crime scene photos of scenes the partners had worked, including shots that seemed to accidentally include the investigators, the throwaway shots that never made it into the files. There were newspaper clippings marked with colored highlighters--yellow for Goren, purple for Eames--every time either name was mentioned. There was more yellow than purple.

Most disturbing, however, were the contents of the last folder in the box. It contained only pictures, candid shots that were deeply disturbing, sorted into a series of four envelopes with printed identifiers: _midtown, crime scenes, off-duty, parks._

Eames glanced at Goren's face as he withdrew the first set of pictures from the envelope marked 'midtown.' His eyes glowed with an intensity she knew well and his mouth was drawn into a tight line. She shifted her eyes back to the pictures. The first several showed the partners walking along the street, deep in conversation. She knew they were taken as they discussed some aspect of whatever case they were working at the time. The next few, all taken in Midtown as the envelope indicated, were various shots of the two partners, together and apart: a pregnant Eames entering Macy's at Herald Square, Goren leaning in to talk to a woman in Times Square, Eames looking toward the upper reaches of the Flatiron Building as Goren pointed toward the sky, Goren leaning against the base of the statue of William Seward in Madison Square Park with a sandwich in his hand, laughing as Eames, holding a hamburger, looked away in a rare display of shy amusement.

Logan looked back and forth from the photos to the partners, gauging their reactions to the photos as they looked through them. Goren picked up the next envelope, marked 'crime scenes'. Sure enough, every one was taken at a different crime scene: Goren leaning down to get a closer look at a bloody corpse as Eames leaned over him, her hand on his back for balance, Eames holding out an evidence bag as Goren dropped something into it, looking at her with a curious tilt of his head..all routine throwaway shots similar to the ones they'd already looked at except for one thing. Every one of the shots in that envelope showed some kind of interaction between them.

The third envelope, marked 'off-duty', contained various candids of them, obviously taken off the job. Some of them were individual shots—Eames shopping with her sister and nephew, Goren walking along the harbor path in Battery Park, Eames leaning on a railing in Rockefeller Center, cradling a cup of hot chocolate as she watched the skaters and enjoyed last year's Christmas tree, Goren smiling as he threw a football back to a group of teenagers playing on a quiet side street in his neighborhood—but most of them showed the partners together, eating a quiet meal, walking in Central Park or along a street in his neighborhood or hers, getting out of the car in front of her parents' house.

The last envelope was marked 'parks'. New York had an abundance of parks and like many fellow New Yorkers, Goren and Eames spent off-duty time enjoying them. They studied the pictures as Goren flipped slowly through them: Eames playing with her nephews and nieces, Eames cuddling the little boy she'd given birth to for her sister, Goren walking with a woman neither Eames nor Logan knew, holding her hand, Eames laughing with Kevin, her favorite brother, as she pushed her nephew on a swing, and a final series of four, all taken on the same day, a day ingrained in the small part of Goren's memory containing truly happy times. He'd spent a rare day alone with Eames in Central Park, not discussing a case, not investigating anything, just being together because they wanted to be, before his mother got sick. Just two friends, spending a beautiful spring day in the park. It had taken a great deal of effort for her to get him to agree to it, succeeding with a combination of plea and threat, but at the end of the day, he was glad he'd agreed. Days like that were exceedingly rare in his life.

The pictures fell from his fingers onto the table and he stepped away, clearly shaken. Logan looked at Eames, who was watching her partner with deep concern. "Alex," he said softly as Goren stepped out the back door onto the small deck that extended into the back yard.

When she looked at him, her eyes were bright with unshed tears and angry because they were there. "Damn him," she whispered. "He's been doing this for _years_."

"Apparently. But these..." He indicated the pictures. "These are going to raise some serious questions about your relationship, especially when the chief sees them. You need to talk to Ross about them." He moved some papers and pulled out a black and white composition book, which he offered to her. "This starts in 1996, with the words 'I think I'm in love.' I haven't read the whole thing, but this guy's been silently stalking you for twelve years. There's another box of photos we found in a shoebox under his bed. I didn't want Bobby to see them. They're all pictures of you, some of them really disturbing. He...he has shots of you asleep in your bedroom, and others of you...uh, with..." He swallowed hard, very uncomfortable. "...with boyfriends, I guess..."

Her eyes widened and the color drained from her face. "Oh, my God..."

"Yeah...no one else saw them but me. That book...his motive is crystal clear, sweetheart: intense jealousy cultivated over the years. He's watched your partnership with Bobby change over time. He sees the affection between you and he got it in his head that Bobby is the one thing standing between you and him. The first three bombs were designed to knock him off balance, which they did. The next two zeroed in on him. Bobby was right—there's one more. With the last one, he intends to kill him."


	8. A Final Waltz

With great reluctance, Logan set the shoe box on the table in front of Eames, casting a nervous glance toward the back door. Through the window, he saw Goren, leaning against the deck railing with a cigarette as he looked out over the small yard. Eames pulled the box in front of her, hands braced on either side of it. "Go talk to him, Mike. Tell him about the journal, what it says. He needs to know that."

Logan motioned his head in the direction of the shoe box. "And that?"

She looked at the shoe box and took a deep breath. "I...I need to be the one to let him know what's in this box."

He looked relieved. "Okay, I'll tell him about the journal."

She watched Logan open the back door and step out onto the deck, approaching Goren, who looked at him. Taking a deep, bracing breath, she removed the lid from the shoebox.

* * *

Logan looked out across the small yard. "Those are some big rose bushes over there. Bet they're really nice in the spring."

"He takes good care of the yard, of his house." He glanced behind him. "How is Eames?"

"Shaken. She's looking at more pictures. Bobby, we found a journal in the bedroom. It was started in 1996, when he realized he was in love with Alex Eames. She was married to Joe then, so he worshiped her from afar. After Joe died, he didn't exactly know how to approach her, so he continued to...obsess about her in secret. That pattern continued over time until recently. He watched your partnership with her evolve into a friendship, and his imagination took off." He accepted a cigarette from his friend and lit it. "In his last entry, he lays out his ultimate goal."

"He wants her."

"Yes. And he has convinced himself that the only way he can have her is by eliminating the competition, permanently."

"The competition...me."

"Yes."

Goren looked toward the house. "He...never intended to harm her."

"No. The first three devices were intended to mess with your head, never to cause her harm."

Goren ground out his cigarette on the deck railing and tossed the butt into the garbage can beside the grill. "And now?"

"And now...there'll be one more device."

Goren pinched the bridge of his nose. "He wouldn't happen to provide the details of time and place, would he?"

"That would be too easy," Logan answered. "But count on it being soon."

When Goren stepped away from the railing, Logan shot a nervous glance toward the house, his mind scrambling for something to keep Goren out on the deck for awhile longer while Eames looked through the shoebox. "Uh, what do you think that is over there?"

Goren looked at him, puzzled. "What?"

He pointed into the yard at a fenced-off area devoid of grass. Goren frowned, caught offguard by Logan's question. "Um...that's probably a vegetable garden. Why?"

"Just wondering. My grandparents had a big garden in their yard, when I was a kid. There's some good memories there."

Goren studied the yard, his head cocked to the side. "Funny thing, memory. A scent...a spring breeze...a flower...so many simple, everyday things can trigger memories, good and bad."

"Has that happened to you recently?"

Goren nodded slowly. "All the time."

Logan braced his arms on the railing. "Good memories?"

"No. I, uh, I don't have too many of those."

"Maybe it's time for you to make 'em." He remembered one of the pictures they'd just looked at. "Who was the woman with you in that one picture?"

"What woman?"

"In the park. You were holding her hand."

Goren shifted uncomfortably. "Her name is Tracy Keegan. I, uh, I dated her for a couple of months in 2002."

"Seeing anybody now?"

Goren frowned. "What's with the questions?"

"I was just wondering, that's all. Tracy's cute. I've been seeing a hot number named Christy. Talk about someone who can heat up a room."

A little more relaxed, Goren half-smiled. "I haven't been seeing anyone, not since my mother got sick."

"Your mother's been dead for six months, man. What are you waiting for?"

Goren frowned. "When I have something to offer a woman, then I'll think about dating again."

Logan couldn't think of anything else to say as Goren crossed the small deck and entered the house. He followed him. Eames was placing the cover back on the shoe box as the men came through the door. Goren looked at the box, then at his partner's pale, upset face. "What's wrong?"

She placed her hands over the box and pulled it toward her, her knuckles turning white as he approached. He touched the box, but she did not release her grip on it. She held his eyes and he frowned. "Eames..."

She shook her head. "You...don't need to see these right now." She handed the box to Logan. "Secure them."

Logan nodded, avoiding Goren's glare. It was going to be a long ride back to the squad room for the partners and he was glad he'd come in another car.

* * *

Goren didn't say a word as they drove from the Bronx back to 1 PP. Eames greeted his silence with mixed feelings. She knew he was furious about being excluded from seeing the contents of the shoe box, an important piece of evidence, but she was glad he did not ask about it. She also knew he was hurt by the exclusion, and she was reluctant to address that with him. She wanted to apologize, but there was nothing for her to apologize for. Unlike her partner, she did not generate random apologies to ease the tension between them.

The images burned into her mind of the photos she'd just seen were deeply disturbing. He'd been in her apartment while she was sleeping. Even more disturbing were the other pictures, the ones she did not want Goren to see--pictures of her with Joe and with the men she'd been with once she began dating again. MacIlvey had a collection of intimate photographs of her with twelve years of lovers, a pathetically small collection, but a disturbing one. If her partner knew, he would go nuts, and she did not want to contribute to the rumors of his instability.

It would be less troubling if the pictures had been taken in one of her residences, or even two. But there were pictures of every relationship she had been in since Joe. And scattered among the intrusive photos were more pictures of her with Goren, ones that chronicled a growing friendship. One showed her sitting on the living room floor with crime scene pictures scattered about her, watching him during a rare moment when his busy mind quieted enough to let his fatigued body catch a few moments of sleep on her couch. There were several of them eating dinner at her dining table while working a case. She tried to think of a time he had been to her place that did not involve a case, and she realized there were none. The assortment of pictures of them in her living and dining rooms all involved casework, but one in particular caught her interest. She was bent over a bookcase, looking for something she'd long forgotten about, and Goren was sitting nearby, his head cocked in that way he had when watching something with deep interest. The picture was endearing; the fact that MacIlvey had been somewhere close enough to take it was more than a little unsettling. How had he taken those photos? Once again CSU was going to be tearing her house apart--only this time it would be the technical squad, looking for bugs and hidden cameras. She felt sick to her stomach.

When she pulled into an empty space in the parking garage, Goren turned to her. "Why?"

She didn't have to ask what he meant. "You're not ready to see those pictures. _I_ am not ready for you to see those pictures."

"But Logan..."

"Logan found them, Bobby."

"They're evidence in our case, Eames!"

"Do you really want to see pictures of me making love to other men?" she snapped.

Immediately, she covered her mouth with her hands, horrified. He stared at her, his shock at her words evident on his face. His face flooded with color and he looked away. His mouth moved, but he couldn't form any words, so without saying anything, he got out of the vehicle and walked toward the elevator. She waited until he was gone before pressing her head against the steering wheel and letting her emotions overwhelm her.

* * *

When she got to the squad room, Goren was at his desk, staring at his hands. She did not need to be a mind reader to tell he was deeply troubled. He'd have to see the damn pictures eventually... "Bobby. if you really want..."

"No," he cut her off. "I don't."

His response was tight and his body language was completely closed off. She hung up her coat and dismissed his irritable reply with a wave of her hand. "Whatever," she grouched.

Sitting at her desk, she pulled a form from the drawer to her left and began writing. He did not even put forth the pretense of doing paperwork. As the end of the day drew near, Goren finally spoke. "M-Maybe it would be best if you went to stay with Logan, or your dad."

She frowned. "Why? Because of that damn shoe box?"

He shook his head. "No. Because of the journal. Eames, this threat is very real..."

She pointed a finger in his direction. "Don't you dare. The threat is real for both of us. He has violated my privacy for the last time, Goren. I'm not leaving you to deal with him alone."

"Eames..."

"Don't 'Eames' me, dammit. No. If you don't want me around I'll go home, and I swear to God I'll shoot anything that moves."

"No. Don't do that."

She glared at him. "Unless you're planning to sneak around my house in the middle of the night with a camera, you have nothing to worry about."

He looked both appalled and embarrassed. "What? I...no...I would never..." He closed his eyes to compose himself, overwhelmingly uncomfortable with the entire idea of anyone taking pictures of her at home in bed, alone or not...and still mortified by his unconscious response to her threat to show them to him. He knew that in time she would have to let him see them, and he was having difficulty sorting through how he felt about that. "That isn't what I meant. Don't go home."

She relaxed, reassured, but she found herself torn by conflicting emotion. The last thing in the world she wanted was for him to see the pictures MacIlvey took, and yet part of her wished he would at least _want_ to see them. Perhaps she expected too much from him, read too much into the emotional ties between them. She wasn't going to make that mistake again.

* * *

As they got ready to leave for the day, Goren's phone rang. Filing away the last of her paperwork, Eames glanced up for a second, then did a double take. The tension in his body, his mouth drawn tight into a frown, gave him away. "MacIlvey?" she mouthed.

His only answer was a tight nod and she felt a surge of fury. He had the nerve to call the squad room? She got up to let Ross know, but Goren waved at her and she sat back down. He hung up the phone.

"I'm going to take care of this, Eames. It's between him and me."

"Are you out of your mind? He's been spinning you in circles for the last two weeks and you know he wants you dead, so you're just going to waltz right into his arms?"

Goren frowned. "I go alone and no one gets hurt. If a SWAT team shows up, he's prepared to take out a city block. I have two hours to show up or people are going to die."

"And if you die?"

He looked around the squad room, then back at her. "Who'd miss me?"

Stunned by his answer, she took a moment to recover before she caught him at the elevator, pulling him back toward the soda machine. "_I_ would miss you, stupid."

He studied her face, disturbed by the emotion he saw there. "I'm sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I don't intend to let him kill me...or anyone else." He lowered his voice. "Maybe Father Capanna can't baptize me, but it's never too late for absolution."

He held her gaze a moment too long, flicked his fingers across her hand in a discreet caress and walked past her when the elevator doors opened.

Eames walked slowly back to her desk. Absolution? For what sins? Maybe that was something she didn't want to know. In a flash of insight, her mind turned back the clock, to one of their early cases. _I think Father Capanna would love to baptize you._ Father Capanna...the pastor of St. Justin's... She ran to the captain's office.


	9. Under God's Watchful Eye

**A/N: Still recovering from Purgatory here...I hate when they're at odds. Anyway, this is a short chapter. I know how much you guys love cliffhangers :-) The resolution will follow shortly. I'm working on it, but I wanted to get something up. I also have an offer of sorts. I'm kinda stuck a bit on Beauty From Pain. What would you guys like to see between Bobby and little Maggie? She's just over a year old. I am fully open to suggestions. Enjoy this short chapter; I will try to get the next part done before the weekend's out, but no promises, except that I'll have it done soon.**

* * *

St. Justin's. Goren stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the stone front of the church. The last time he' d been here, Morris Abernathy had been found laying in a pool of his own blood. As he ascended the steps to the front door, he wondered how much more blood this church was going to see.

The interior of the church was dim and quiet. Crossing the vestibule into the nave of the building, his eyes scanned the pews, which were empty. No one was there, praying for absolution or smoothing out their path to Heaven. The last time he'd been in a church, he'd buried his mother. He drew in a deep breath, registering the faint small of incense in the thick air. Memories came flooding back. He was eight years old, kneeling in a pew at the back of the church in his home parish of Our Lady of Miracles, asking God what was wrong with his mother, begging Him to fix her, to bring back the loving mother she had once been. His prayers were met with a deafening silence, heralding the beginning of his journey away from God.

He was a good man. He'd tried to be a good son; he tried to be a good cop. But no matter how hard he tried, he always fell short of his goal. He was good; he tried to be better. Another memory, of an older boy, thirteen or fourteen, kneeling in the same pew in the same church, giving God another chance. This time he was bleeding. If he was a demon, how could he enter this holy place without bursting into flames? He'd washed out the cut under his eye with holy water; it still bled. He asked God what He wanted from him to make his mother well; he got no reply. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance...he hadn't quite hit them in order but he hit each one hard. The depression was past and he was at the end of his bargaining. God had been his last resort. He looked toward the altar, where he'd served as an altar boy since he was nine. He rose from his knees, ignoring the blood that had dripped onto the pew in front of him. Turning, he left the pew and walked out of the church. He never returned.

"Thank you for joining me, Detective Goren."

The voice echoed through the church, and Goren, drawn from painful memories, looked up, toward the choir loft at the back of the church. "You didn't give me much choice, Eddie."

"Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"Good. We wouldn't want any harm to come to our Alex, would we?"

Goren bristled at his choice of words, but chose not to address them. "Where's the bomb, Eddie?"

He heard the sound of footsteps on stairs and MacIlvey emerged from the stairwell near the confessional at the far side of the church. He had a gun in his hand, which he waved toward Goren. "First, remove your gun with your right hand and kick it toward the altar."

Once Goren had done that, MacIlvey said, "Now take off your coat and your jacket."

Goren shrugged out of both, draping them over the back of the closest pew. MacIlvey nodded. "Now the vest."

The sound of ripping velcro echoed through the cavernous building and his kevlar vest joined his coat and jacket over the back of the pew. He thought it fittingly ironic that he would die in the house of the God who had abandoned him, like everyone else in his life had, when his mother got sick.

MacIlvey studied him as he drew closer, moving cautiously. "You took her away from me. I was ready to make my move, and you stepped in and stole her heart."

_Stole her heart?_ He again chose not to address MacIlvey's accusation as the man stepped into the center aisle and leaned against a pew, studying him from twenty-five feet away. "How do you do it, Goren? How do you manage to work with her, every day, and keep it all in perspective? How do you maintain your focus?"

Goren was quiet for a moment. He heard a noise coming from the vestibule and he glanced in that direction, but saw nothing. MacIlvey seemed not to have heard it, so he wondered if he had imagined it. As he returned his full attention to the man with the gun, he realized that he found his connection with the man's unstable mind: Eames. He crossed the aisle and leaned against a pew, watching MacIlvey. "Eames..._is _my focus. I come to work every morning, and she's there. I leave for home every night, and I know she'll be back the next day. I can do my job because I know she's there to reel me in, to never let me slip too far away."

MacIlvey focused on a distant thought, not noticing that Goren had moved closer. "She's...beautiful. Why can't she look at me the way she looks at you?"

Goren was confused. "How...does she look at me, Eddie?"

"Are you messing with me? You notice everything."

Goren shook his head. "I'm not in much of a position to be messing with you."

MacIlvey watched him, wondering if this truly was something Goren had never seen. "After her husband died, I waited a respectable amount of time, but then you came along. And I watched." His voice turned hard. "You're in love with her."

"What makes you say that?"

"Are you denying it?"

"I'm not denying it or admitting it. It's irrelevant. I'm here to find out where you've put that bomb."

MacIlvey had the upper hand, and he knew it. "It's irrelevant," he mimicked. "Because I decided it is. Besides, all I've gotta do is get you out of the way and she's all mine."

Goren rubbed his forehead. "Uh, doesn't she have a say in it? You're treating her like an object. She's a human being and she has every right to decide who she lets into her life. The bomb, Eddie. Where is it?"

"She'll let me in. She loves me. She just doesn't know it yet."

This was getting him nowhere, but he moved a few steps closer. He held out his hands in an open gesture. "So why don't you talk to her?"

"Talk to her?"

"It's what people do when they want to get to know someone. If you want someone's attention, you say hello. You don't try to blow up her family."

"You found the bomb! She was in no danger! And I got her attention!"

"As a perp, Eddie! Not as a friend!"

MacIlvey had lowered the gun; Goren slowly closed the distance between them.

_As a perp..._ Goren's words rolled about in MacIlvey's sick mind. "A perp? I'm not a perp..."

Goren was within fifteen feet of him, keeping him distracted as he inched closer still, eyes darting from the man's hand to his face. This was one disturbed mind he could not connect with, one head he could not get into. It was a chain of thought that he never allowed himself, a fantasy world relegated solely to his subconscious. He could feel this one slipping away, and he had to do something.

Another sound echoed through the church, followed by the opening of the door that led to the vestibule. MacIlvey snapped his head in that direction, as Eames entered the nave, gun drawn and leveled at MacIlvey. "Put the gun down, Eddie."

Caught as much off-guard as MacIlvey was, Goren looked at his partner, a mixture of confusion and controlled panic coursing through him. The edge she granted him by her appearance slipped away as MacIlvey screeched, "You said you were alone!"

As he spun back toward Goren, he was shocked to find him less than a car's length away. "No!" he screamed as the big cop moved and he tried to scramble back, away from him.

Eames had a clear shot and she took it as MacIlvey swung his gun toward Goren. At the exact same instant she squeezed the trigger, her partner unexpectedly jumped forward. Her gun kicked back in her hand a fraction of a second after MacIlvey's gun discharged. She echoed the man's cry of "No!" as both men went down and more blood spilled onto the floor of St. Justin's.


	10. A Last Cryptic Clue

_Pain._ Searing hot pain and intense pressure competed for dominance within his chest, making it difficult to breathe. He heard voices accompanied by heavy footfalls echoing through the nave, but he only had one focus. By sheer force of will, he moved against the pain and shifted himself around to grasp MacIlvey's shirt, fisting the fabric as he jerked it toward him. Eyes moved in response, already beginning to glaze over. "The bomb..." Goren demanded. "Eddie!"

MacIlvey tried to see through the haze that veiled his vision, and he wondered where the pain had gone. His body jostled and words broke through, shattered into their component syllables but not reforming. Then a single word penetrated. _Bomb!_

Bomb?_ The bomb...where's the bomb...?_

He tried to moisten his lips but his tongue was dry as his body continued to lose vital fluid through the hole in his chest. _Bomb..._

It wasn't supposed to end this way. He was supposed to get the girl. But he had a sinking feeling it was over, and he had to concede victory to the other guy. He forced himself to form the words. "Broadway...virgin...m-my...my love..."

Goren's hands released the shirt, now dark with blood. He watched the life continue to fade from the man's eyes until he was pulled away, rolled onto his back. The church's ceiling seemed impossibly far away. He forced himself to draw in another breath, shallow and staggered. The pressure now eclipsed the pain. His pulse was pounding in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the people around him. He shifted his eyes from the ceiling, and there was his partner, kneeling at his side, her hands wet with his blood, face damp with her tears. He had to tell her something, something very important. But what?

He watched her, unwilling to look away, and it was the tears that troubled him, not the blood. Was it time to say good-bye? As a paramedic grasped her arm to draw her away, it hit him. The bomb...she had to find the bomb... He reached out, closing his hand on her wrist to pull her back to him. He tried to speak, but it was so hard to force out the words. He had barely enough air to breathe; talking would cost him precious breaths he could not afford to waste. But he had to tell her. She leaned in to hear him. "Bomb..." he managed with difficulty, shallow breaths now coming rapidly. "Broadway vir-virgin. F-Find it..."

The pressure was worse and now so was the pain. It was an uphill battle to draw breath, but the pounding of his pulse eased a little after they slipped an oxygen mask in place. He never felt the IV being started in his arm, but the warmth that enveloped his brain like a hug was welcome, and so was the darkness it brought. The last thing he saw was his partner's troubled face as she was drawn away from his side.

Eames stepped back, watching in muted horror as her partner's eyes drifted closed. Her gaze shifted to the paramedics who worked on MacIlvey. Both sets of attendants were focused, working frantically to stabilize the two men. Her attention shifted back to her partner's abnormally still form.

"Saline's up, Rog," said the younger of the two men working on Goren. "Wide open. The sedative helped some; he's not struggling so hard. I already relayed that to the ER."

The senior paramedic nodded absently, intent on making a fast, but thorough assessment of Goren's condition, including his injuries. He'd quickly removed Goren's tie and unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it open. The worst thing medical first responders could do for a patient was 'swoop and scoop'. They had to assess his injuries so the doctors had an idea of what they were facing when they wheeled him into the emergency room. Quickly and professionally, the two medics examined the man, giving him the best chance possible to make it to the hospital alive. They gently rolled the injured man onto his side as Roger spoke. "We have two entry wounds here, Marty. One on the right side, with an exit wound to the left of his spine, and one just to the left of his sternum, near the base of the rib cage, damn close to his heart. No exit wound. He still has a bullet in him."

They placed a pressure bandage over the one exit wound to control the bleeding and rolled him onto his back. Marty scribbled on the chart as Roger reassessed Goren's vitals. "BP 90 palp, pulse 145 and erratic, respirations thirty five and very shallow. Lungs are not clear, decreased sounds on the right, rales and crackles on the left. He's decompensating." He pulled the stretcher closer. "Let's get him the hell out of here. If we wait for him to fully stabilize, he won't make it. We've gotta risk moving him as he is."

With help, they lifted him onto the stretcher. Marty looked at Eames, who had been watching. They'd completed their rapid assessment in just a few minutes' time. "You're his partner?" She nodded mutely, unable to find her voice. "He'll be at NYU."

Again she nodded and they were gone. She was left alone, staring at the pool of blood that remained behind. Two entry wounds..._two_... There had only been two shots fired, and hers had hit MacIlvey, who was now being wheeled out of the church. Goren had not been in her line of fire; she was sure of it. So how did he get _two_ entry wounds?

She remained there for several long moments, pondering the issue as she stared at the pool of Goren's blood, until someone touched her arm. She turned, startled, and met Logan's concerned eyes. Beside him stood Ross, eyes darting to the two areas of pooled blood on the church floor, then back to her. "What happened, Eames?"

Logan's hand remained on her arm and she moved a half step closer to him, glad he was there. She drew in a deep, calming breath. She couldn't talk about her partner and she would not allow herself to falter in front of the captain. She drew her gun from its holster and handed it to him, but she focused on the case. "There's another bomb, and we have to find it."

Another bomb? He was more concerned about his fallen detective, but something told him not to press the issue with her. He took the gun and handed it to Logan, who tucked it into the waistband of his pants. Ross kept his mind on the threat of the bomb. "Do you know where to look for the device?"

Slowly, she shook her head. "The only clue we have is 'Broadway virgin'. What the hell does that mean?"

"Where did that come from?"

"From MacIlvey, before he lost consciousness."

"'Broadway virgin'," he mused. "Did Goren say anything about that?"

She shook her head. "He wasn't in much condition to analyze anything. He was barely able to talk."

"Where did they take him?"

"NYU."

Logan tightened his hand on her arm when she looked away from Ross. He felt the subtle tremor course through her and was impressed at how well she hid it from the captain. She trembled harder when her eye caught the blood on the floor again. Logan tugged on her arm and, with a nod of his head at Ross, he gently guided Eames out of the church. By the time they reached the front steps, she had composed herself again.

Pulling her keys from her pocket, she stepped away from Logan and descended the steps toward the SUV. She desperately wanted to go to the hospital, but they had to find this bomb. Stopping at the vehicle, she leaned against it and breathed deeply. She forced herself to focus on the clue and away from her critically injured partner. _Broadway virgin... _What could it possibly mean? She wished she had Goren's insight. He was much better at puzzles than she was. He'd once said they had complementary skills, and that was what made them such a successful team. They had a connection most partners never developed. But the riddles were his domain.

Logan leaned against the Explorer beside her and Ross stood nearby, staring toward the church as he tried to figure out the clue. "What do you think it refers to, Eames?" Ross asked.

She looked at him and answered, "It has to refer to the location of the bomb. Broadway..."

Logan gave a brief laugh and crossed his arms. "That's a lot of street, Eames. It runs the entire length of Manhattan, through the Bronx and into Westchester County."

She nodded. "So what could 'virgin' refer to?"

"Some point along Broadway..." he mused. "Could it be a jab at Times Square? There used to be a lot of prostitution in that area. Maybe it's a paradoxical clue."

"I suppose. It gives us a starting point anyway."

"I'll go with you."

"We'll all go," Ross said. "We need to find this thing."

Eames stepped away from the SUV and Logan slipped the keys from her hand. "I'll drive."

She didn't argue. Walking around the vehicle, she slid silently into the passenger seat, and Ross climbed into the back seat. Logan started the engine, pulled away from the curb and drove toward Times Square.

She heard Ross talking on his phone, his voice subdued, but she didn't even try to listen to his conversation. She looked out the window, and she thought about her partner. In her mind's eye, she saw the little boy smile he shined when the pieces all came together for him and he was excited about it. With her mind's ear, she heard his soft laughter when she said something to amuse him. Her thoughts tumbled around all the reasons he was important to her, and she knew her life would not be complete if he was no longer in it.

She was drawn from her thoughts when Ross leaned forward and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. He spoke softly, tightening his grip on her shoulder. "Your partner made it to the hospital, and he's in surgery now."

She bit her lower lip and nodded. "Thank you," she said, her voice tight.

She looked back out the window and recalled something she'd once said about Goren. In open court, she called him an acquired taste, an assessment he agreed with. Now that she'd acquired the taste of having him in her life, she wasn't sure she could adjust if he were suddenly gone.

Running her hand through her hair, she took another deep breath and turned her mind to the task of finding MacIlvey's Broadway virgin. They had to find it in time. No other outcome was acceptable.


	11. Broadway Virgin

Logan swung around and entered Times Square from the north, driving down Broadway to find a needle in a haystack. The only problem he could see was that they had no idea what kind of needle they were looking for, and it was a pretty damn big haystack. "I don't know," he said as they proceeded slowly through Times Square. "_Broadway virgin _is kind of vague."

"Ya think so, Logan?" Eames snapped. "And the rest of his clues were beacons of light? Goren's the one who loves puzzles. We'd already..."

She trailed off and stared down the street. _"Virgin_..._Broadway virgin_. There, Mike! It _has_ to be there! _The Virgin Megastore_!"

Logan screeched to a stop in front of the store as Ross spoke urgently into his phone, telling the bomb squad to get rolling. The three cops entered the busy store and looked around. They'd found their haystack. Now the real hunting began.

Logan huffed, "There's a lot of kids in here."

Ross motioned toward the stairs and said, "Take the upper level, Logan. Eames, start looking down here. I'll get the staff started on the evacuation."

The detectives searched in and around tables, bins and displays as the store gradually emptied of customers. Ross joined in the search until the bomb squad arrived. As they suited up and pulled out their equipment, Ross spoke with their commander in urgent, hushed tones until the store manager burst from the store. "They've got it!"

At the back of the store, Logan stood behind Eames, who was kneeling in front of a display marked 'Clearance'. Nestled against the wall beneath the display was the device. From what she could tell, it was similar to the other devices, except that this one was almost entirely covered in plastic explosive. Leaning against the front of it was a gift, brightly wrapped in red paper and labeled _For Alex, my love._

She stared at the letters, a sick feeling in her stomach. When a hand touched her shoulder, she jumped to her feet, lurching from the display as though it had burned her. Ross and Logan followed her from the now-empty store out onto the sidewalk, cordoned off and deserted. They leaned against the SUV, watching the front of the store in apprehension. Twenty minutes later, the commander of the bomb squad approached them. He handed Ross a CD and said, "This is what was in the red paper. Your people did a great job finding that device, Danny. There was enough C4 on that beast to take out the block and half of each block around it. Whoever this guy is, he means business. Have you found him yet?"

Ross nodded as he pulled out his phone. "Yes, we have him. He almost killed one of my detectives during the arrest." He paused to read the message on his phone, then he looked at Eames. "MacIlvey died in the emergency room. He never regained consciousness. Goren is still in surgery."

She nodded. Ross pushed away from the car and held his hand out to the squad commander. "Good job, commander," he said. "I'll watch for your report."

They got into the SUV and pulled out onto Broadway. Ross let out a heavy breath and addressed Eames. "Eames, I need to know how the shooting went down. The suspect fired one shot; you fired another. Who fired the third shot?"

"There was no third shot, Captain. There were only two."

"MacIlvey took one bullet; your partner took two. Explain that."

"I can't. Goren was not in my line of fire. I'm positive of that. MacIlvey was between us."

"Then how..."

She turned suddenly to face him. "I don't know how it happened, but I do know I did not shoot my partner."

Logan glanced at her. "CSU will do the trajectory analysis. That should give us the answer." He was quiet for a moment. "They might have the preliminaries done by now."

Eames sat back and repeated, "I did not shoot him."

"Calm down," Logan urged, pulling out his phone. He hit speed dial '7' and waited for someone to answer. "Hi, Trish, this is Logan. Is Mitch back from St. Justin's yet?...Can I talk to him?... Thanks... Hey, Mitch, do you have the prelim done on the trajectory?...Yeah...No, she said he wasn't in her line of fire at all...Behind Eddie, from what I saw...Yeah, I was there...Two...Are you serious?..." He sighed. "Okay, man. Thanks."

"What did he say?" Ross demanded before Eames could ask.

"You're not going to believe this. Eames hit Eddie, probably a split second after he pulled the trigger. Somehow, and no one really knows how, Eddie's bullet hit Goren as he moved toward him and Eames' bullet passed right through Eddie's body and hit Goren as well. That's how both bullets ended up hitting him. That bullet must have tumbled and changed course inside Eddie. Hopefully it lost enough velocity that it won't end up killing Goren."

No one said a word until Eames, very quietly, muttered, "So I did shoot him..."

"Indirectly," Logan answered.

Ross sighed heavily. "Internal Affairs is going to have a field day with this one."

No one disputed that. Logan found a parking spot near the medical center and they went directly to the surgical waiting room, where Eames talked to the volunteer manning the waiting room desk. "How do we check on the status of a patient in surgery?"

"Are you family?"

"He has no family, but I'm his medical proxy."

"His name?"

"Robert Goren."

The volunteer scanned her list. "One moment."

As she turned to the phone, Eames looked at Logan, who was standing beside her. Before she could say anything, the volunteer turned back to them. "Someone will be out to talk to you shortly."

"Is he...I mean, how is he doing?"

"I don't know. Sorry."

She moved away from the desk with Ross and Logan, a knot settling in the pit of her stomach. She paid no attention to the conversation between the men, watching for anyone in surgical scrubs to make an appearance. She didn't have long to wait.

The man who approached knew how to read the body language of those who waited for news from the surgical suites. "Ms. Eames?"

She nodded, frowning. "Yes. How did you know...?"

"Dorothy said you are Robert's medical proxy. Alexandra Eames is the only proxy we have on record for him."

"How is he?"

"I'm not sure exactly how to answer that," he replied as he led her to a quiet corner of the waiting room. Ross and Logan followed them. As they sat down, he went on. "He was shot twice in the chest and he arrived in critical condition. We would have liked a chance to stabilize him, but he wasn't cooperating with us, so his surgical course has been a rocky one. Right now, it's touch and go."

"The paramedics said there was still a bullet inside him."

He nodded. "We found and removed it. That one didn't do a lot of damage. The other one, though..." He trailed off. "I'd better get back. We'll keep you informed."

They watched him walk off. Eames rose and walked to the bank of windows on the far side of the room, arms wrapped around her stomach as she looked out onto a courtyard. Several people were out there, smoking. She was aware of someone behind her, but she didn't turn. A hand touched her back and Logan said, "He's a fighter. We didn't let MacIlvey win; neither will he."

When she didn't respond, he left her alone and returned to sit by Ross and wait. She remained by the window, thinking about the 'gift' MacIlvey had left for her. It was a compilation of love songs titled _Love Story_. Unbidden, the title lyrics intruded into her thoughts: _Where do I begin to tell the story of how great a love can be, a true love story that is older than the sea? Where do I start?_

_Twelve years ago, that's where,_ she thought bitterly. Twelve years of unrequited love from a man too painfully shy to make a move on it, a situation that had slowly eaten away at him until he had finally snapped. In his delusions, he'd created a rival in Goren and sought to destroy him. _You're in love with her._

Slowly, it dawned on her that Goren had not denied the accusation. She dismissed it, though, as part of his game. He always sought some way to connect with his target, some way to form a bond before he silently moved in for the kill, catching them unaware. It was a game he played brilliantly, a dance of two criminal minds, one twisted by whatever forces drove it, the other driven by an obsessive need to find justice. The difference was that, at the end of the game, only one mind remained warped and twisted by criminal desires. The other always came back to her. Whatever demons possessed him in the pursuit of his quarry retreated, and he was able to slam the door on the part of him that could have led him down a very different path in life. Goren was a difficult, complicated man, and she didn't want him any other way.

Closing her eyes as she leaned her forehead against cool glass, she silently prayed for his life. Outside, in the city beyond the warm waiting room where a varied assortment of people waited for word from surgery, the sky gradually darkened, and it began to snow.

* * *

**A/N: _Love Story_ is by Francis Lai and Carl Sigman, performed by many (including Andy Williams and Miss Piggy, but most famously by Henry Mancini).**


	12. The Shadow of Guilt

**A/N:Sorry this update has been so long in coming. I was stuck. I also want the folks in the path of the hurricane to know that I am thinking of them. Stay safe.**

* * *

Eames stood by the window in Goren's ICU room, looking out into the swirling storm that held the city firmly in its grip. It had been snowing for two days now and the streets were covered with a thick, white blanket of insulating snow. She found herself wishing she could share the storm with Goren; they both loved the cold and the snow. Snow was refreshing: clean, white, pure. Cold was invigorating: crisp and sharp. As she watched the snow whipping about the street in the wind, she could feel a similar maelstrom built up within her, raging about her heart.

She shot her partner. She had not meant to shoot him, but that did not alter the fact that she had. Two bullets had penetrated his chest. Two bullets had been removed from his body. One of them was hers. She found herself unable to move past that horrifying fact, and the grief and guilt ate at her like a cancer. No matter how many times she whispered an apology to him, she felt no relief. This was something she found herself utterly unable to move past. In order for her to come to terms with her emotions, she knew that she would need his help. If he died...no! That was an option she refused to accept and she'd told him as much. She was the senior partner, and she was not going to allow him to give up. He had to continue fighting; he had to recover.

Until IAB finished investigating the shooting, she was not cleared for duty. Bitterly, Logan had commented they might give her a medal, knowing Goren was a pariah in the department, as much an outcast as he was, maybe more. Being a maverick himself, he was able to make that bitter joke, but it did not spare him her wrath. He hadn't been back. So she sat alone beside Goren's bed. There was no one else, no one else who cared if he lived or died. But she cared because he was her partner. She cared because he needed someone to care and he had no one else. She cared because she loved him.

Turning from the window, she approached the bed and looked up at the monitor that displayed his heart's rhythm, placing her palm flat on his chest to feel the throb of that beating heart. With a mixture of resentment and gratitude, she looked at the respirator beside his bed. She knew it helped him to breathe, but she hated that he needed it. She was assaulted with so many conflicted emotions lately, and she was tired of how unsettled she was. All she wanted was for Goren to turn the corner and recover. She could forgive him for getting shot, even for drawing Eddie's attention away from her to protect her. But she was having trouble forgiving herself for the role she played, deliberate or not. She couldn't help feeling responsible. This was all her fault.

Each night, with reluctance, she left intensive care and drove to Brooklyn, an easier, safer commute in the snowy weather. His apartment was closer in distance to the hospital and, nestled beneath the blankets in his bed, she felt closer to him. Surrounded by the scent of him, she could feel his warmth around her. She was comforted by that, even if she still suffered insufficient, restless sleep. In the morning, she drove back to the hospital to sit beside his bed again and struggle with the fact that two cops' bullets left him struggling for his life, and one of them had been hers.

On the third morning, the storm broke shortly before the sun rose above the horizon, and she made her way back to the hospital before daylight. After she managed a light breakfast of orange juice and a buttered roll, which sat in her gut like a lump of molten rock, Ross showed up. She resented the intrusion but tried not to let it show.

Ross looked around the room, uncomfortable for a number of reasons. He hated hospitals with a passion. That hadn't always been the case. He'd once considered hospitals a necessary adjunct to his chosen career and he felt mostly indifference toward them. Then, he advanced into a position of authority, responsible for the lives of the men and women under his command. Since that promotion to the command level, he had spent far too many hours in hospital emergency rooms and waiting areas. What he dreaded most were the times that followed when he had to visit a fallen officer's family with the inadequate words "I'm sorry."

His eyes came to rest on the man in the bed, and he felt even more ill at ease. There was no family to talk to if this officer didn't make it. The only one for him to offer his condolences to was already sitting at his bedside. Recalling the conflict that seemed to identify his relationship with Goren, he made an odd discovery. He relished that conflict. As long as Goren was fighting, as long as there was fire in the man's disposition, Ross knew that he was all right. He didn't want Goren to be passive or submissive. He relished the challenges of dealing with a temperamental genius. If nothing else, Goren kept him guessing. As long as he was around, Ross knew his job would never be boring.

He grabbed a chair and slid it closer to Eames, lowering himself into it as he leaned closer to her and spoke softly. "How is he?"

"Stable. Their prognosis is guarded."

"How are you?"

That was a much more difficult question to answer and he knew it by the way she hesitated. Her gaze left him and returned to her partner before she said, "His blood is on my hands. How do you think I am?"

Her answer did not surprise him. These partners were close and they always assumed responsibility for each other's welfare. "Eames, this is not your fault. It was an accident of physics..."

"Please, captain. Don't make excuses for me. I accept my responsibility in this."

"Responsibility and guilt are very different things." She didn't respond, but he knew from the rigid set of her back that she would dig in about this. He sighed, knowing he had to let it go for now. He didn't want an argument, so he changed the subject. "Has internal affairs caught up with you yet?"

"No. Not yet. Why?"

"They talked to Logan late yesterday. I wanted to warn you."

"They're trying to pin this on me," she said with certainty.

"No," he answered. "They are trying to find a way to pin it on your partner."

She turned in her chair to stare at him in disbelief. "What? You can't be serious."

"His stability is still in question, and yours is not."

She saw genuine distress in his green eyes. Her voice shook with rage. "I've been his partner for eight years, and he has never used his weapon against a suspect. He treats victims with sensitivity and respect, even the dead ones. He's gentle with the children and they respond to him. What part of any of that is unstable?"

"You don't have to convince me, Eames. You have to convince internal affairs."

Her eyes hardened. "I will."

"One more thing. Have you ever known him to have a death wish?"

She hesitated, not because the answer was yes, but because it wasn't. "He doesn't have a death wish," she assured him. "But he doesn't consider his life before the lives of others. That makes him a damn good, effective cop."

Ross nodded in agreement and shifted tactics to give one more try to convincing her she was not at fault for her partner's condition. "Eames, do you think Goren will blame you for what happened?"

She shook her head. "I know he won't. He wouldn't blame me if I walked up to him and pulled the trigger, point blank. He'd look to himself for what he'd done to make me do that. I'm not worried about being blamed. I'm worried about losing him and I know I contributed to what happened. That makes me partially responsible for the outcome."

He couldn't argue with her logic but he did not agree with her reasoning. He sighed. "I wanted to stop by to see how he is doing and to give you a heads up about IAB, so their questions won't catch you off-guard." He looked toward the bed and added, "And so you will know not to let them do their questioning here."

"That was considerate, captain. Thank you."

He nodded, mouth tight as he looked once more toward the bed. Rising, he left the room. Eames looked at her partner. "They have no idea what they're talking about. I'll set them straight, don't worry. You just get better."

Still, there was no response from her partner.


	13. Setting the Record Straight

His organs were failing—his liver, his kidneys, his heart—and there was nothing they could do. She sat by, angry and helpless, as he slowly slipped away, until he was gone...

She sat up suddenly, in a real panic inspired by the vivid reality of her recurring nightmare. The first thing she did was look at his face, which, though still, appeared normal. He looked like he was sleeping, only peaceful. She then looked at the monitor over the bed and listened to the rasp of the respirator, which they had been turning down all week. He was improving, and she was reassured by her assessment. By the time she was done, her heart had stopped pounding and the panic had subsided, leaving only a feeling of vague nausea in her gut.

She hated being alone with her thoughts more than anything else. The circumstances of the shooting disturbed her, of course, but there were other things that troubled her deeply as well. Most of all, the last hours before the shooting haunted her. Goren had been hurt and angry at her for withholding the shoebox evidence from him. Although the nature of the pictures was disturbing, it was still evidence. Well, not any more. With Eddie dead and the last bomb disposed of, the case was done. The evidence would be filed and the pictures, at her request, would be handed over to her. He would never have to see them, and that was the way she wanted it, the way he would want it as well. She only hoped it would not cause more problems between them.

She hated being at odds with him, and the entire afternoon after their return from MacIlvey's had been tense. She had been hurt when he said she might be better off at Logan's or with her father. She still needed to be near him, especially knowing he was MacIlvey's real target. For some reason, she felt better being with him, like there was something she could do to protect him. That had worked out well. Some protector.

Of course, he hadn't done such a bang-up job himself this time around. The events at St. Justin's tormented her, replaying themselves over and over in her mind, like a machine caught in a recording loop. She knew why he had rushed MacIlvey. It was the only way he knew to get back the man's attention, the only chance he had left to possibly disarm him without endangering anyone else. He had succeeded in drawing Eddie's attention from her. She knew he intended to reach him and disarm him before the gun discharged, and she wondered if he'd misread Eddie or if he had simply taken a calculated risk and lost the gamble.

"Knock, knock," came a familiar voice from the doorway.

Drawn from her thoughts, he looked toward the door, where Logan stood, grinning at her sheepishly. "Do you mind if I come in? I promise, no wisecracks."

"You're fine, Logan. I'm sorry I yelled at you the other day. Come on in."

He entered the room and immediately looked toward the bed. "He doesn't look bad. The captain says he's doing better."

"He is. He's starting to show signs of waking."

Lowering his lanky frame into the chair beside her, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew an envelope. Silently, he offered it to her. She frowned. "What's this?"

"A peace offering. I got one of my buddies in the crime lab to make some copies for me. I hope that the source won't detract from the subject matter."

She slid the pictures from the envelope and slowly examined them, pausing when her eyesight blurred. They were pictures of her and Goren, the best pictures from MacIlvey's collection. They were pictures that, in spite of the circumstances that surrounded their taking, brought back warm memories of good times they had shared. Slipping the pictures back into the envelope, she leaned over and hugged him. "Thank you, Mike. That was very thoughtful."

"I chose the right ones?"

Leaning back, she gave him a sad smile. "Yes, you did."

"These are just between you and me."

She nodded and set the envelope on the bedside stand. Logan looked at Goren and said, "Ross told you about IAB?"

"Yes. I won't let them interrogate me here."

"Good." He paused and poked idly at the mattress in front of him. "Can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"Are you going to let him see the contents of that shoebox?"

She shook her head. "What would be the point now? Eddie's dead and the case is closed."

He looked at her, eyes bright with mischief. "And if he wants to see them?"

She smacked his shoulder. "You're a pig, Logan. And he doesn't, so it's not an issue."

He laughed and then became serious. "Are you going to take possession of 'em now that the case is over?"

"Hell, yes. I already talked to Arlo. I will not take the chance of them ending up all over the damn department." She frowned as a thought occurred to her. "The captain..."

He nodded. "Yeah, he reviewed all the evidence before the shooting. He was pissed. Impotent rage, I believe they call it. With no one to direct it toward, he's been really pleasant."

"What else did he say, Logan?"

Logan looked at his hands. "He said...not to let Goren see those pictures. But that's entirely your call, Eames."

She nodded. "For once I agree with him."

Logan shifted in his seat. He wished he hadn't seen the pictures, and he was glad he hadn't looked through the entire box. The handful of shots he saw were enough. He wished Eddie had survived the shooting so he could have a little discussion with him on how to properly treat a woman you claimed to love. He looked back at Goren's face and said, "So you think he'll be all right?"

She looked at her partner's still form on the bed. "I have to."

* * *

A hand gently grasped her shoulder, accompanied by a man's voice calling her name. "Detective Eames?"

Woken from a light sleep, she sat up away from the bed, where she had rested her head near Goren's arm. She looked at the two men who stood near her, watching her. She noticed that they were pointedly ignoring the man on the bed and she frowned. "Don't tell me. Internal Affairs."

The closer of the two men nodded "I'm Terry Malvern and this is my partner, Chris Darby."

Her voice was distinctly unfriendly. "We are not doing this here, gentlemen."

Malvern nodded consent. "Fine. Can we buy you lunch?"

She rose from her chair, giving Goren's arm a quick caress as she did. "We'll go to the cafeteria," she agreed. "But I can buy my own lunch."

Malvern and Darby exchanged a glance, and as they got to the door, Darby looked back into the room. He hesitated, studying Goren for a moment before following Eames and Malvern from the ICU.

Eames sat across from the two IAB officers with a cup of coffee in front of her. She had even less of an appetite now than she had lately. Malvern began the questioning. "We shouldn't take too much of your time, detective. When Detective Goren went to confront Officer MacIlvey, what was his state of mind?"

Unconsciously, her mind went back to their last conversation. _And if you die? Who'd miss me?_ As it had then, those words tugged at her heart, because he was almost right. Not too many people would miss hm or mourn his passing. But it wasn't an answer of despondency. It was an answer of honesty. He knew how alone he was in the world, and he had come to terms with it long ago. The one thing he had never been able to do, however, was convince her that he didn't matter to anyone. He mattered to her. She frowned at Malvern. "Goren's state of mind is irrelevant."

"Not to our investigation," Darby said.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What do you mean by that? You are investigating a shooting. Why are you focusing on the officer who was shot?"

"We are exploring the role Detective Goren may have played in the shooting."

Eames stared into her cup. "The role he may have played..." she murmured. "He had a very important role in this shooting, officers. He got in the path of a bullet."

"Two bullets," Darby reminded her.

She glared at him. "Yes, two bullets. Look, the way this thing went down, I was the one at fault, not him. Goren assured MacIlvey he had come alone, and he believed he had. He is a master at talking down suspects, even unstable ones. Detective Logan and I were there to back him up, without his knowledge. I perceived a level of danger to my partner that he may not have felt and I took action based on that perception. I was wrong. The suspect lost it when he thought Goren lied to him about being alone. That was what triggered the shooting. My partner was shot when he was forced to make a move to physically disarm MacIlvey. He...drew MacIlvey's fire away from me. I fired too late to prevent MacIlvey from doing the same. Don't look to blame Goren for this."

The two men were surprised by her account of the shooting, even though it matched what Logan had reported. Darby asked, "Does he often go into situations without backup?"

"No. But he often does what he needs to do to get the job done. His job is catching bad guys, and that is what he does. He's good at it, too, better than most. So stop the witch hunt. Goren didn't do a damn thing wrong."

"We reviewed the evidence in this case, Detective Eames," Malvern informed her, his voice hard. "What was your partner's reaction to the items discovered at MacIlvey's residence?"

She fought down a surge of fury and struggled not to appear uncomfortable. She'd shot her partner, and it was the least she could do to take the heat for this. He would not hesitate to do the same for her. "He was disturbed," she answered truthfully.

"And when he reviewed the contents of the shoebox?"

Her face darkened. "He never saw the contents of the shoebox."

The two men exchanged looks. "Detective Eames, those pictures are evidence in this case. Are you saying evidence was withheld from one of the lead investigators of the case?"

"No, I am not. I am saying that, as senior partner, I made the decision to postpone his review of that particular box of evidence."

"And your reasons?"

"Time and place, Officer Malvern. It was neither the time nor the place. Those pictures would have deeply disturbed him, and I was not going to allow that in front of a house full of crime scene investigators. He would have reviewed them in the more controlled setting of our squad."

Darby was frowning. "You were afraid of his reaction."

"I felt unable to predict his reaction," she corrected with venom. "It was the right decision at the time."

Malvern took a bite of his burger, deceptively calm and friendly. "Detective Eames, what is the nature of your personal relationship with your partner?"

She glared at him, angry and suspicious. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"We are trying to figure out your real motivation for withholding evidence from your partner."

"I did not withhold evidence. He knew all about it. I postponed his review of that evidence because it was the right thing to do."

Darby shifted the line of questioning a little. "You are very protective of your partner," he began.

"As he is of you," concluded Malvern.

"Of course," Eames snapped. "We're _partners_."

Darby opened a folder he'd been carrying with him. "Detective, some of the photographs we found..."

She raised a hand. "Stop right there. Do not head down that path and say something you might regret. A picture is a moment in time, a small piece of a larger picture, taken out of context. I care very much about Goren, and your investigation will not change that."

The men marveled at the way she was able to make the word investigation sound so unsavory, so wrong. "Detective..."

She waved a hand at Malvern. "Is there a problem with our solve rate?"

"Uhm...no."

She looked at Darby. "Is there a problem with our conviction rate?"

"No."

Back to Malvern. "Methodology?"

When the officer hesitated, his partner said, "Goren's methods can be unorthodox, and his interrogation technique is...unique."

"And that's a problem? Let me tell you two something. I would rather deal with a straight shooter like Goren than with men like you who crawled out from under a rock to take down a fellow officer who did nothing wrong." She rose from her seat. "You're almost as bad as the people we put away...maybe worse because you hide behind a badge. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have someplace I would much rather be. You can go and crawl back under your rock now. Just leave my partner alone."

They watched her storm off and silently, each man opened the file he carried and they began to write.

* * *

Eames returned to a flurry of activity at her partner's bedside. "What's wrong?" she demanded when a nurse stopped her outside his door.

"Nothing, we hope. He began getting agitated a little while ago, and he pulled out his breathing tube. We have him sedated and they're taking x-rays right now. So far, there are no indications we have to put the tube back in, and that's a good sign. When this sedative wears off, we'll let him wake up, if he settles down."

When they wheeled the portable x-ray machine from the room, Eames returned to his bedside. She stood there, looking at him, pleased that he no longer needed help to breathe. "I can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?"

She sat down, placed her hand over his and waited for the sedation to wear off. More than anything else, she needed to talk to him. Her world had been set on its edge by this shooting and he was the only one who could make it right.


	14. Forgiveness

The darkness was replaced by a gray fog, which he allowed to stay wrapped around him for awhile, keeping the darkness at bay. When the fog began to get lighter, he let it drift away, and he opened his eyes.

The lights outside the room were bright, but in the room they were subdued. He silently took stock of how he felt. Other than an annoying burning deep in his chest, he didn't feel too bad. Painkillers...he did recognize that fog in his head. What could possibly have happened to land him in the hospital?

He fought the grogginess in his head and his mind began to clear. MacIlvey...that's right...the shooting... He moved and the burning became a fire. He groaned. Someone moved at the bedside, and he felt pressure on his hand. He turned his head in that direction. His eyesight cleared slowly, though he recognized his partner's form before his vision fully cleared. "Eames," he murmured.

Her eyes filled with tears as she watched him struggle to full awareness. "You need to learn to duck faster, Goren."

He laughed, which was very much the wrong thing to do. When he recovered, he looked toward her again. "Don't make me laugh," he warned.

"Sorry." But she wasn't, not really. She squeezed his hand for a moment before she was gently ushered out of the way by the medical staff. He kept his eyes on her until his view was obstructed by a doctor and two nurses, and the questions and poking and prodding began.

It seemed like forever before they were done with him, but he caught a glimpse of Eames on the far side of the room, watching and waiting, so he cooperated. But he was disturbed by the look he saw on her face. Something had her deeply troubled and he wondered what it could be. He couldn't imagine Ross upsetting her; she got along with the captain. He wondered if MacIlvey had done something else to set her off, as if stalking her weren't bad enough.

He was distracted and starting to get irritated by the questions the doctor kept asking. His eyes narrowed and he snapped, "How many times are you going to ask me how I feel? It's not going to change in five minutes. If I'm not giving you the answer you want, tell me and I'll change it. I told you four times, I feel okay, other than some pain in my chest. I don't want any drugs. I just want to get out of here and go home so I can go back to work."

The doctor seemed to understand his irritation, and he smiled. He got the response he wanted, pleased by the light of irritation he saw in his patient's eyes. It was that fight he wanted to see, the attitude that told him this cop was going to be all right. "You told me what I need to know," he replied. His examination complete, he motioned to the nurses. "Let's let him rest."

After telling him to call if he needed anything, the two nurses followed the doctor from the room, and Eames returned to his bedside. "I guess you told him, huh?"

He settled back into his pillow and looked at her. "Something is troubling you."

It wasn't posed as a question. He could read her better than anyone. But she could read him as well, and his outburst at the doctor taxed his strength. She rested her hand lightly on his chest, reassured by the beating of his heart beneath her hand. "Later. Get some rest."

"Eames..."

"Not now," she said softly.

The brick wall at the end of his endurance was a lot closer than he was used to having it and he didn't have the strength to fight his fatigue. He tried to argue with her, but in the end, he lost the battle against the darkness, and he let it claim him at last.

* * *

He had no concept of the passage of time, and no awareness of what transpired while he slept, but when he woke, he felt better. Eames wasn't there, so he called a nurse. She told him his partner had gone home to sleep and asked him how he felt. "I feel like I am going to get sick of that question," he replied, but there was a light of amusement in his eyes and he gave her a smile. Then he supplied her with a real answer, "I feel better."

She gave him a cup of water and urged him to drink it as she checked his IV lines. Gently jiggling one, she said, "We should be able to remove this one tomorrow. Are you hungry?"

He shook his head. "Not really."

When her brow furrowed, he saw that she was disappointed with his answer and he amended it. "But I'll try to eat something, if it'll make you feel better."

That brought a smile to her face. "It would. Jello or broth?"

He quirked an eyebrow. "Not much of a choice," he complained.

"Okay, how about cherry or orange jello and chicken or beef broth?"

"Better," he answered. "Let's try the broth. Chicken."

"Good choice. I'll be right back."

He watched her leave, then turned his attention inward, to assess how he was healing. His mood was good, although he was still disturbed that his partner was troubled. His pain was manageable, though it probably would not be without medication. He turned his mind toward St. Justin's and tried to remember what had happened to land him in the intensive care unit of a hospital. The memories were fuzzy, but he recalled facing off with MacIlvey. The man was on the edge but so was he. He struggled with a mounting rage at what that man had done to Eames, stalking her silently for twelve years. In Logan's words, the guy's creep factor shot through the roof. He couldn't even imagine how she must have felt, finding out about it. And that shoebox...He took a deep breath, focusing on the pain to calm himself and draw his mind from his anger. It wouldn't do him any good here. He would save it for MacIlvey.

Moving past his anger, he remembered feeling there was a chance for him to talk the man down, to disarm him without anyone getting hurt. Had he underestimated the man? Did MacIlvey really feel that he had stolen his partner's heart? He found that laughable. Only one man had claimed her heart, and she'd buried him ten years ago. Eames cared about him, yes. But she didn't love him that way, no matter what MacIlvey thought he ever saw, and he knew it. So what had happened?

_You're in love with her._ Had MacIlvey really tossed that accusation at him? His own feelings were neither here nor there. It was what MacIlvey felt that he concentrated on. All Goren wanted was to know where that last bomb was planted, but the suspect was focused on Eames. The bomb...could that be why Eames was so troubled? Were they too late in finding that last bomb? Another failure on his part...

He chased away the melancholy. That was counter-productive. He'd have to find out from her what went down after he did. Back to the memories...

_Put the gun down, Eddie. _Eames...She'd understood his reference to Father Capanna and showed up at St. Justin's. His cavalry or his downfall? In either case, her appearance in the church was what ultimately destroyed his chance to disarm MacIlvey. He'd lunged at the man, hoping to disarm him before any shots were fired in the church, but he moved too late. He heard the report of MacIlvey's gun and its echo through the nave.

That was all he remembered, but it explained why he was where he was. He looked at the bandages that encircled his chest. That was a lot of bandage for one bullet wound. He was wondering at that when the nurse returned with his broth. She set it and a cup of red jello on the tray table and slid it in front of him. "Here you are." Noting his puzzled frown, she asked, "What's wrong?"

"I was just thinking that this is a lot of bandaging for one bullet wound."

"Maybe it is, but not for two. You were shot twice."

"T-Twice? But I only remember one shot..."

She gave him a sympathetic smile. "Memory isn't always reliable after a trauma like this. Eat your broth."

He took a sip of the broth and wondered where the second bullet could possibly have come from.

* * *

He heard someone enter the room, and he turned over, opening his eyes. Eames stopped. "Did I wake you?"

"No. I was awake. I've been waiting for you."

She stepped up to the bed and handed him a book and two magazines. "Let me know when you're done with these. I can't have you being bored."

He gave her an affectionate smile. "Thanks. Why aren't you working right now?"

She'd been hoping for a little more time before she had to discuss this with him. She was nervous because she could not predict what his reaction would be to the discovery that she had shot him.

"I haven't been cleared to return to duty yet."

He frowned. "Why not?"

"Internal Affairs is taking their sweet time about it." _It isn't every day a cop shoots her partner._

He was still confused. "But why do you need to be cleared for duty?"

"Standard procedure in any officer-involved shooting. You know that."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I...don't understand. What happened, Eames? The nurse told me I was shot twice. How did MacIlvey get off two rounds?"

"He didn't. He shot you once, in the chest at close range. You were moving toward him. He almost killed you." He waited silently as she shifted where she stood, running the edge of the sheet through her fingers. She would not look at him; she did not want to see his reaction to what was coming. "The other bullet that hit you...was mine."

He was stunned, to say the least. He frowned and tried to wrap his mind around what she'd just said, but he couldn't. "You...you _shot_ me?"

"Indirectly." She still would not look at him. The incredulous tone of his voice was enough for her. "MacIlvey and I fired at almost the same moment. I didn't see you start toward him. My bullet hit him, passed through and then hit you. You took two bullets in the chest, but his was the one that did all the damage."

"Ballistics verified it?"

"Yes. Bobby, there were only two shots fired. It's not rocket science."

"Eames, look at me."

Reluctantly, she looked up. When he saw her eyes, bright with unshed tears, his face softened. "How could you have predicted that?"

"Predicted what?"

"Any of it. Me, trying to disarm him before any shots were fired. Your bullet passing through his body and hitting me. No one could have predicted it. It was, at best, a fluke." He touched her hand. "You'll be cleared for duty and I'll be back soon. It'll be all right."

"Yeah, well, my interview with IAB didn't go too well."

His face darkened. He already had a dim view of Internal Affairs. "Are they trying to pin it on you?"

She shook her head. "No. They're trying to pin it on you. I gave them a piece of my mind and walked off."

"On me?" His mind shifted gears slowly. "How do they figure that?"

"I'm not sure. But Ross and Logan gave them what-for as well."

"Tell Logan to watch himself. If he gets sent back to Staten Island on my account, I'll come looking for him."

"Logan's okay. Ross has his back, and yours, too."

That news also gave him pause. "Ross does?"

"Yes. In spite of the friction between you, he values you as a member of the squad. He talked to both Logan and me. He knows exactly what went down."

He mulled over that for a moment before another thought crept into his mind. "There was one more bomb..."

She nodded. "We found it."

"How? We had no idea where it was."

"You managed to get to a clue out of Eddie and passed it on to me. Logan, Ross and I figured out the where and found the device."

He shook his head. "I don't remember."

"You were critically injured."

He leaned back, releasing her hand and looking toward the white ceiling. "What did they charge him with?"

"Who? Eddie? They didn't charge him."

"Why not?"

"Because he died shortly after they got him to the hospital."

He closed his eyes, feeling a sense of loss. A small part of him regretted the loss of life, any life, but he was used to that feeling, even when it happened to someone the rest of the world felt deserved it. But the biggest part of his regret was never being able to confront the man for what he had done, having to let this one go, unresolved. This case was very personal, and while justice was served in its way, he felt unfulfilled. Slowly, he forced his eyes open and looked at his partner, who was watching him with concern. "How do you feel about that?"

She shook her head. "I'm glad it's over."

"Eames..."

"That's how I feel about it. Relieved. What about you?"

"That's...a difficult question to answer."

"Why does that not surprise me? You can't regret what happened."

He looked down at his bandaged chest and then back at her, eyebrows raised quizzically."Do you want to rephrase that?" he asked with a weak smile.

She cast her eyes down. "I am so sorry, Bobby. I never intended to shoot you. I...please, forgive me."

This time she could not keep the tears at bay and they spilled from her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. "Eames," he murmured, reaching for her.

He pulled her against him and held her. "It's all right, Eames. How could I ever think you intended to do that?"

She let him hold her while she regained her composure. Then she pulled back and straightened away from the bed. She met his eyes, searching for forgiveness. He was running out of steam, but he still sensed her need. He reached toward her and took her hand, holding it firmly. "Let it go, Eames. You did nothing wrong and I don't hold it against you. You're my partner and I trust you with my life. That hasn't changed. Don't carry this with you any longer. Please. Just let it go."

She continued to hold his gaze, and she saw the forgiveness she sought. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He gave her a soft, weary smile and closed his eyes. His grip on her hand relaxed and she lifted it back onto the bed. Leaning down, she pressed her lips against his forehead, then she sat down in the chair beside his bed and watched him sleep.


	15. Talking It Out

Goren stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom of his hospital room. He examined the two healing entry wounds on his chest. _MacIlvey's bullet entered here_, he thought as he touched the scabbed wound just to the left of his sternum, the one that had barely missed his heart and almost killed him. _And Eames' bullet went in here_, he mused, skimming over the other wound, on the right side of his chest. _Low velocity, not so much damage. Otherwise, I would never have lived._

He pulled on his shirt and thought about his partner. Guilt was something he was intimately familiar with, and he knew she still felt guilty about what had happened. And yet, every time he tried to talk about it, she changed the subject. He was getting frustrated, but he was also gaining an understanding of how she felt when he did the same thing.

He'd transferred from intensive care three days after they let him wake up, and he'd been in this room for ten days. Finally, they were letting him go home, and he was glad for it. He hated being restricted in any way, and he had no freedom at all while he was there. He buttoned his shirt and tucked it into his jeans. Smoothing his hands down the front of his shirt, he smiled. Eames loved this shirt, which was probably why she'd brought it up for him to wear home.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, he was surprised to find her in the room, standing by the window, looking down into the city street below. Her arms were crossed and she was hugging herself. _Still defensive, still upset_, he observed. "Hello, Eames."

She turned from the window and looked at him. "You look good. How do you feel?"

"Fine. It still hurts, but it's not too bad." He tipped his head to the side, an inquisitive gesture she knew well. "What about you?"

"Me? You didn't shoot me, Goren."

He sighed. "Eames..."

"Let's just go, all right?"

He shook his head. "No. It's not all right. I'm not going anywhere until you talk to me."

Her jaw clenched. "Fine. Let's talk about the weather, the state of the economy, the crash of the housing market..."

"Enough, Eames. You know what I want to discuss."

She perched her hands on her hips. "So I need to open up and bare my soul to you because you want me to, and you couldn't even tell me that your mother was sick! When does the street start running two ways?"

He walked to the tray table and stuffed his keys and his wallet into his pockets. She still had his badge, his knife and his weapon; he'd get those later. "Fine. If that's the way you want it..."

Her eyes narrowed. "Not the way I want it, Goren. The way it is."

He looked at her, his eyes blazing with anger and hurt. "I don't need a ride home. I'll see you at work."

He grabbed the stack of papers the nurse had given him, rolled them into a tube, and stormed from the room.

She was stunned for a moment, trying to figure out if he was bluffing. Deciding he wasn't, she ran after him. She caught him at the elevators. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I was discharged. I'm going home."

"You're going to walk?"

He shook his head. "I'll get a cab. Nice thing about New York—it's full of them."

"Bobby..."

"No, Eames." He leaned closer to her. "I get it, all right? I understand. But let me say this...you feel guilty because you shot me. I need to talk to you about it, but you want to punish me because I keep my own issues bottled up inside. Eames, I don't talk to anyone. I never have. If you want to be that way, that's fine with me. If you decide to discuss it, you know where I live. If not, then I'll see you at work."

"Do not throw an ultimatum at me," she growled.

"It's not an ultimatum. You don't have to talk to me; I can't force you. But I'm not going to ask you for anything either. There's no need for you to go out of your way for me."

"And that's your way of punishing me?"

He frowned. "I'm not punishing you. I'm just going home." The elevator doors opened. "I'll call you when the doctors clear me for work."

He stepped into the elevator car and hit the first floor button. He didn't say a word when she followed him. They were silent until the doors opened on the first floor. "I'll walk you to your car," he offered.

"Don't bother," she snapped.

In a sudden swift movement, he grabbed her arm and pressed her against the wall across the lobby from the hospital's doors. People gave them some curious looks, but no one intervened. Goren was focused on his partner, bringing his face close to hers. "Do not blame yourself for what happened," he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. She did not recognize his tone; it was one she'd never heard before. "Weird shit happens every day. You were doing your job; you were trying to get him before he got me. It didn't work out that way. Deal with it. But do _not_ feel guilty on my account. I do not blame you and I don't want you blaming yourself."

In a move that was entirely out of character for him, especially given the public nature of their location, he shifted his face to gently kiss her, something he had never done before. Then he walked away.

He walked out of the hospital and found a cab with ease. Sliding into the back seat, he gave the driver the address of his apartment. His kiss had exactly the effect he'd anticipated. It left Eames stunned and gave him the time he needed to find a cab and leave the hospital without further confrontation. He'd pay for it later, he knew, but he didn't care about that when he did it. He just wanted to get away and go home without any more fighting.

The cab dropped him off and he went into the building. Once inside his apartment, he felt better. This was his refuge from the world. He took off his shirt, draped it over the arm of the couch and laid down. Tucked in the roll of papers the nurse had given him was a prescription for pain killers, and he debated whether he needed them or not. The pain wasn't horrible, so he decided not and grabbed the remote from the coffee table. Turning on the television, he flipped through the channels, found a show he wanted to watch, and set it back on the table. Twenty minutes later, he was asleep.

* * *

Eames stood against the wall in the hospital lobby, watching her partner's retreating back. _What just happened? _she wondered. Raising her hand to her face, she touched her lips with her fingertips. She was confused and uncertain. Nearly in a daze, she made her way to her car and sat behind the wheel for a long time. Shaking herself from her reverie, she started her car and drove to Brooklyn.

There was no answer when she knocked, so she knocked again. When he pulled the door open, she could tell she'd woken him. He didn't say anything and neither did she. Her eyes were riveted to the two healing wounds on his chest, and she reached out to touch the one her bullet had made.

It took a conscious effort on his part not to move away when she reached out to him. He closed his eyes when her fingertips caressed his chest, and then he stepped away. Returning to the couch, he sat down and scrubbed his face with both hands. The pain was worse, but it still wasn't bad enough to drive to the pharmacy.

Eames entered the apartment and closed the door. She remained by the door, though, and watched him. "I'm sorry I woke you," she said finally.

He picked up the remote and turned off the television. "It's fine. I need to eat anyway."

"I can fix you a sandwich or something," she offered.

"No, thanks. I'll fix something after you leave. What do you want, Eames?"

She sighed softly, wondering if she deserved that attitude or not. "You wanted to talk."

"And you didn't."

"I changed my mind. Are you still willing?"

He studied her for a moment before he nodded. She finally stepped further into the room and sat at the opposite end of the couch. She knew he would wait for her to start, and she began with the question that was foremost on her mind. "Why did you kiss me?"

He wasn't surprised by the question. "That's not what I wanted to discuss."

"I need to know."

"Were you going to just let me walk away?"

"I didn't intend to, no."

"That's why I did it. It was the only thing I could think to do that would catch you off-guard enough to give me a chance to walk away."

She seemed relieved. "So you didn't mean anything by it?"

"I didn't say that. I still don't want to talk about it."

She bit her lip, wanting to press him for an answer. But she knew it would do no good. She wouldn't get anything more from him. "You want to try talking me out of my guilt."

"Like I told you at the hospital, it wasn't your fault. You did your job. What happened after you pulled the trigger was a pure fluke. IAB cleared you, didn't they?"

"Yes. And Ross said they were annoyed when they couldn't pin the shooting on you. They had to close the case and let it go."

He shrugged. "I'm glad you were cleared. There was nothing else they could do."

She moved closer to him. "Do you think I was wrong?"

He leaned back into the corner of the couch and stared at the far wall. "I think...a lot of things could have been done differently."

"Like what?"

He moistened his lips. "I knew you would get my reference to Father Capanna. But...you could have given me more time to talk him down. I was close. When you stepped out of the vestibule, he snapped. Maybe I shouldn't have rushed him. I realize that compounded my injuries. I probably would never have even taken your bullet if I hadn't done that, but I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't take the chance he would turn on you." He sighed. "We both screwed up."

"You always do this," she complained.

"Do what?"

"Take the blame for things that really aren't your fault."

"But it was my fault. I was the one who rushed him. I put myself in the path of your bullet. Your aim was dead on, like it always is. It never occurred to me to blame you for it."

"It never does."

He let out his breath in a frustrated huff. "I don't want you blaming yourself."

She frowned and snapped, "We can't always get what we want, you know."

Waving his hand dismissively, he snapped back, "Whatever."

She was quiet for a long time. "I'll try, all right."

After a moment, he nodded. "Just remember...the origin of that bullet was entirely incidental."

Another protracted silence stretched between them. "I guess I'd better go," she said. "So you can eat and go back to sleep."

He nodded and she stood up. "Eames?"

"What?"

"Uh..those pictures MacIlvey took...?"

Her gut clenched. "What about them?"

"Uhm...what happened to them?"

"I have them. CSU returned them to me when the case was closed." She watched him fidget uncomfortably. "I...can't show them to you," she said softly.

He waved his hand. "I...I don't want to see them. I just...I was hoping the lab disposed of them properly."

She nodded. "Don't worry. They have been properly disposed of. Good night."

He watched her cross the room and then turn at the door. "Thank you," she said.

"What for?"

"For making me feel better. Now eat something and get some rest."

"Good night, Eames."

She left and he stretched out on couch, turning the television back on. What little appetite he had was gone. Soon, he was sleeping again.


	16. The First Steps

**A/N: Sorry for the long delay in updating. After the last chapter I slammed into a brick wall and had no clue where to go from there. Fortunately my writer's block freed itself up and I found my way down the path of the story. Hope it was worth the wait. The scene with Father Dell is for rindy713.  
**

* * *

Eames sat at her kitchen table with the shoebox they had seized from MacIlvey's home. Flipping off the top, she removed the pictures and set them on the table. She shuffled through them, sorting out several. She studied the picture of Goren leaning over to speak with a woman in Times Square. A waitress... Chloe something foreign...Russian or Ukrainian...not fluent enough in English to be comfortable talking to the police. But he had charmed her into accompanying them to the squad room, where he made her at ease with his soothing manner and soft-spoken, kind words. Eames was not surprised that he lacked the patience to wait for an interpreter to arrive. Once they had her settled in an interview room, Goren sat beside her and talked to her in Russian, lightly touching her arm or her hand as he spoke. His words were soft and halting as he searched his mind for the correct terms for his questions. His face was a mask of deep concentration as he listened to her replies, translating what she said in his head before putting it to paper. By the time the interpreter arrived, Goren had his answers. Handing his list of questions to the confused officer with instructions to transcribe her answers, he'd thanked the witness, asked her to review everything with the newcomer and call if she thought of anything else. Eames followed him out of the room, catching up with him at the elevators. They left the building and were off to follow up on a lead the questioning had generated.

The magic gut, Deakins once called Goren's intuition. She had to concur. He had a sixth sense most cops lacked, a gut instinct that was seldom wrong. Goren hated to be wrong more than almost anything else. He took it hard when a perp got away, which was something she was grateful seldom happened. He took such losses personally. Witnesses and children he handled with kind finesse. Perps he manipulated with understanding and compassion right up to the final confession, right up to the moment they heard the words, "You are under arrest for..." And finally, when the time came to be congratulated for a job well done, he preferred to be someplace else. When the captain was able to corner him with the kudos, he accepted it with a nod as a shy flush colored his cheeks. More often, he tried to make himself scarce, to let her deal with the back patting. She handled it better than he did. He wanted no recognition. All he wanted was to move on to the next case, to take down the next perp and bring justice to another set of victims. _All he wants is to be left alone to do what he does best—catching bad guys._ She had seldom spoken truer words about him. All he was interested in was justice for the wronged.

With a deep sigh, she set aside the picture and took a sip of her tea, hoping to settle her stomach. She looked at the next picture, in Madison Square Park. He was laughing and she was looking away. She remembered that day. It wasn't long before his mother died and he'd been in a rare good mood. During the very early days of their partnership, she had been the one to tease him, and he always took it with a good-natured smile or laugh. After a couple of years, he began to tease back, and their partnership blossomed into a friendship. Then his life began to unravel and he withdrew from her. The worse things got for him, the more he withdrew until their relationship suffered. When their friendship fell apart, she suffered for it, too. She missed her easy-going friend, his soft laugh and the smile that turned his eyes into warm pools of melted chocolate. That same smile often melted her heart, too.

Picture after picture brought back memories of a time she wished they could recapture. She wanted things to return to the way they had been before his mother got sick. She wanted her friend back, the light teasing banter, the looks, the smiles, the _connection_.

She gathered the pictures together and slipped them into the box. Setting it to the side, she grabbed her coat and left the house. She drove to Brooklyn.

* * *

_St. Justin's._ Goren stood on the sidewalk once again, looking up at the stone front of the church. So much blood had been spilled inside those sacred walls. Mounting the steps, he entered the church, crossed the vestibule and entered the nave. The interior was cavernous, the silence thunderous. He walked slowly forward, to the spot where he had fallen, dropped by two bullets. Eddie MacIlvey had fallen with him, and their blood had mingled on this spot. The blood was long gone, but the memory of that afternoon would remain with him for the rest of his life.

A voice from behind him startled him, even though the words were softly spoken. "St. Thomas Becket was murdered in Canterbury Cathedral in 1170. It's never a good thing when blood is spilled in the House of God. How do you feel, detective?"

Goren turned to face the priest. "I'm healing, Father."

Thomas Dell motioned toward the pews, and Goren sat down. The priest sat beside him, but he did not speak right away. Finally, he said, "I see that your body is healing, but what about your soul?"

Goren stifled a bitter laugh. "My soul? Father, my soul is beyond healing."

"No soul is ever beyond healing for a man who knows how to seek forgiveness."

Goren's mind returned to the past, to Mike McShale and his crisis of faith. _Who forgives God?_ "My mother was not well. She...she developed schizophrenia when I was seven. I spent the rest of my childhood begging God to make her well. I stopped asking when I was a teenager, when I realized my prayers were falling on deaf ears. I walked away and never looked back. Do I need to seek forgiveness from an apathetic God?"

"God answers men in His own way, according to His own agenda, and that seldom meshes with our own. Sometimes the answers come in unexpected ways. I know men who strayed under less trying circumstances. I also know men whose faith never wavered in the face of greater challenges."

"Does that make me weak-willed?"

Dell smiled. "Of course not. We live a life of choices, detective. Everything we do involves a choice. What to eat, what to wear, where to go. Some choices seem miniscule—a bagel or a biscuit, the blue tie or the gray one. Others are huge—kill a man or walk away, drive drunk or call a cab. We are governed by our conscience and defined by our choices."

"I always tried to do the right thing, to be a good son, a good man. But she preferred my brother over me and on her deathbed confessed that my life may have been a lie. What am I supposed to do with that?"

"Learn from it. Always walk away from adversity with a lesson learned. You turned from God because you were hurt and angry, but you cannot escape yourself."

Goren slid his hand inside his jacket and rubbed the healing wounds in his chest. "My life...unraveled...over the last year and a half. I lost almost everything. My mother died, I disowned my brother, I put my job, my life on the line, and I alienated myself from the one person who cares about me the most. I have no idea...how to fix it."

Father Dell rested a comforting hand on his shoulder. "At the risk of sounding trite, let me say that every journey begins with a single step. Somewhere between the onset of your mother's illness and adolescence, you took that first step away from God. Somewhere along the way, you also took that first step toward becoming a good man. Now, it's time for you to take your first step toward reclaiming your life and recovering what you fear you may have lost, toward reconciling yourself with your past. And somewhere along the way, I pray that you will take that first step in your journey back to God, however long and convoluted it may be. Remember that we always have choices, detective, and they are not always easy ones. If I can help you in any way, call me, but ultimately the decision on which path to take lies within you."

The priest rose from the pew, genuflected and left the church. Goren remained where he was seated, less than ten feet from the place where Eddie MacIlvey made his final choices and put a bullet in his chest. Beneath the flat of his palm, he felt the healing wound left by that bullet. MacIlvey's obsession with Eames led him down a path to his own demise. Goren's obsession with justice, with protecting the innocent, had almost reached that same end, but something prevented that from happening.

Goren raised his eyes to the figure hanging on the cross behind the altar. _Is that what You had in mind for me? Another chance to find my way back to You?_

He had learned from bitter experience to expect the silence that followed. He rose from the pew, genuflected out of long habit and started toward the back of the church. Unbidden, a verse from the Bible slipped into his mind: The fifteenth chapter of the Gospel of John, verse 9. _I have loved you just as the Father has loved Me._

He stopped and turned, looking back once more toward the crucifix. _Every journey begins with but a single step._ Turning again, he walked out of the church, deep in thought.

* * *

Eames parked her car in the closest available spot outside his apartment. She searched for his car, but it wasn't parked in the same place it had been yesterday. She wondered where he could have gone and why. Grocery shopping, maybe, although she'd left him fairly well-stocked. The state of his cupboards had been pathetic, and she had taken it upon herself to stock them so he would have food when he came home from the hospital. He probably wanted something for lunch that she hadn't thought to get, something that wasn't good for him, most likely.

Should she go up and see if he was home? Maybe he'd gone out and ended up parking around the corner when he got back. She pulled the keys from the ignition and got out of the car, locking it and stepping away.

Glancing up and down the block as she walked toward the building, she stopped when she saw him approaching from down the street. Pulling her coat tighter around her against the chill wind, she waited. He tipped his head to the side as he approached her. "Eames, what are you doing here?"

"I...came to see you," she replied. She'd almost said she needed to see him, which was true, but she wasn't sure how well he'd take that admission. "Where did you go?"

"Out," he answered vaguely. "I was tired of being cooped up inside. I needed to get out."

She walked beside him into the building. "Out where?" she pressed, struggling to keep her tone light and curious.

The elevator doors opened and he didn't answer. As they walked down the hall and he unlocked his door, he still didn't answer. "Can I get you something for lunch?"

She recognized the question for the diversionary tactic it was, and she let him get away with it, for the moment. "Why don't I make us tomato soup and grilled cheese while you sit down and rest? You look pale."

She had not missed the thin sheen of sweat that coated his forehead or the bright flare of pain in his eyes, and she swallowed her annoyance at his continued insistence on shutting her out. She was surprised when he didn't argue with her.

Goren watched her turn and walk into the kitchen. He easily read the irritation in her movements. He wasn't certain how she would take it if he told her he had gone to St. Justin's, but was it better to not tell her anything? He crossed the room to where he'd hung his jacket and stuffed his hand in the pocket to retrieve the bag that was in it. He took it to the kitchen, removing the pill bottle from it and crumpling the green and white striped bag into a ball. Eames glanced at him from the can opener, shifting her eyes to the bottle. He read the question in her eyes. "They, uh, gave me a prescription when they discharged me. I just got it filled." He absently passed his hand over the wound MacIlvey had inflicted. "It hurts worse now, and I need it."

"You're more active now. It will hurt. I'm glad you got it filled."

He dumped two pills into his hand and got a glass of water. "In about forty-five minutes, I will be, too."

He took the medication and leaned against the counter as he finished off the water. Setting the glass on the counter, he said, "St. Justin's."

With a frown, she looked at him. "What about it?"

"You asked where I was. I went to St. Justin's."

"Why?"

He folded his arms across his chest. "I don't know. I wanted to see...to see where I went down. The blood is gone."

"Did you expect them to leave blood on the floor of a church?" Judging how snippy that must have sounded to him by the way he averted his eyes and tensed, she softened her tone and added, "There was a lot of blood there."

"Mine—and his."

"Yes."

The memory of that day still rattled her. Her hand shook as she poured the condensed soup into a saucepan. When she turned toward the sink, he held out his hand. She gave him the can and he filled it with water, returning it to her. Her hand trembled and some of the water slopped over the edge of the can. Gently, he closed his hand around hers to steady it. She closed her eyes, struggling to maintain her composure with the image of that large pool of blood on the floor of St. Justin's filling her mind. The blood was a less disturbing image than the memory of him lying in it, being tended to by worried paramedics.

It took an effort, but she managed to regain her composure. Steady once more, she withdrew her hand from the warmth of his and poured the water into the pan, stirring it into the soup and turning on the stove. She didn't hear him move; she never did. The man moved like a cat. But she felt him hovering behind her. His presence had become like a force field, humming with an energy she could almost see. "What's wrong?" he said softly, his breath warm against her hair.

Deciding to play the game his way, she evaded the answer to his question. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

He was puzzled. "Did I lose something?"

"At St. Justin's. You obviously went there for a reason. "

She expected him to withdraw and was surprised when he didn't. "I don't know what I was looking for and I'm not sure I found it. Maybe someday, it will come to me."

She was quiet for a long moment, stirring the soup on the stove. When she spoke, there was a vague unsteadiness underlying her tone. "Do you remember what happened that day?"

He raised his hand as if to touch her, but withdrew it at the last moment. He stepped away from her, returning to lean against the counter by the sink. She grabbed the bread from the counter, cheese and butter from the refrigerator and a frying pan from the cabinet. She looked toward him, recognizing the look on his face. He was remembering, and not for the first time. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a tone she did not recognize. "I remember fear," he said softly.

She nodded, thinking she understood. "You had every right to be afraid..."

"No, Eames. Not my fear. I have never been afraid to die. _Your_ fear. I saw it in your face. I've never seen you scared before, not like that. Why? Why were you so scared?"

She focused on the sandwiches. She wasn't certain where this conversation was going, and she wasn't sure she liked it. He was a master at shifting the focus of any conversation away from himself. "You felt no fear," she commented, trying to redirect the conversation.

He shook his head. "No. I felt pain...and pressure...But not fear." He stepped away from the counter and moved about, preparing a pot of coffee. Eames did not intervene. As he poured the water into the machine, he said, "The last time I felt any real fear...was when you were missing, when I thought you might...be dead."

She turned her head to look at him, but his attention was focused on the coffee machine. "Bobby..."

He shook his head, cutting her off with an abrupt wave of his hand. She watched him grab two coffee mugs, spooning sugar into one. He filled both cups and got the milk carton from the refrigerator, adding it to both. He slid one cup toward her and, taking the other, left the kitchen.

She watched him go, frustrated by his withdrawal. This time, though, she was not going to let him get away with it. She finished the sandwiches and poured the hot soup into two bowls. She brought the soup bowls into the living room and set them on the coffee table, returning moments later with the sandwiches and her coffee. Instead of the easy chair, she decided to sit beside him on the couch, careful to maintain a comfortable distance. She was about to force him into a discussion he obviously did not want to have, and she didn't want him to feel threatened on top of it.

He was on edge, stirring his soup idly. She said, "We only talked about what happened to me, what I went through, and my recovery. You never told me...what happened to you, what my abduction did to you. It never occurred to me to ask, and I'm sorry about that."

"It was never about me. I didn't go through that torture, that terror. You were the one who had to come to terms with your ordeal."

"So you buried what you were feeling to focus on me. And then your mom got sick."

"And everything began to spiral out of my control. My life...came apart at the seams, and I couldn't cope with it." He continued to stir his soup. "I...don't know how to fix it, either. I...I'm afraid...it can't be fixed."

"What makes you think that?"

He set down the spoon and looked at the floor between his feet. "You...You're always angry. Nothing I do...is right." He pressed his palm over the wound left by her bullet. "I can't even get shot right."

She decided not to address that immediately. "Why...why weren't you afraid to die?"

He drew in a deep breath and shifted uncomfortably. "Look at my life," he said with a sweeping motion of his left hand. "How much worse could it be to die? The only thing I would miss would be you. Unfortunately, I don't think you'd say the same thing."

She turned sharply. "How can you say that?"

"Very easily. Think about it. What have I done for you except screw up your life? I've tainted your career, gotten you in trouble with the brass. You never wanted to get noticed, you once said. Well, I got you noticed and it's not...not a good thing. My mother is gone, Eames. I have no family, no permanent girlfriend. No one needs me."

Eames shifted her body so that she was facing him, undeterred by the fact that he would not look at her. "I'm going to level with you, Goren. You drive me up a wall sometimes. You are frustrating and infuriating. But you are my partner. I've never had a partner as long as I've had you. And you are my friend...at least, you were once. I miss that friend. I miss the humor, the laughter. I miss you. You've changed over the last two years, and you shut me out completely. What am I supposed to think about that? We once had a connection. I don't know where we lost it along the way, but I want it back. You're right. I don't need you. But I want you in my life, dammit. And I want to be part of yours. I hate being forced to stand outside in a blizzard, looking in at a warm glowing fire, knowing I'm no longer welcome."

_Welcome_...he wondered what it was like to feel welcome, really welcome. "I never meant for you to feel that way," he murmured. "You...you are the only person who truly cares about me. That..." He closed his eyes. "I didn't...I...I don't know what to do with that. So I...pushed you away. I felt I could...handle it better...if I kept you at arms' length."

She moved closer. "And when I get inside that bubble you've created around yourself?"

Opening his eyes, he looked at her. He drew in a deep breath. "Eames, you don't understand."

"So explain it to me."

How could he explain himself and make her understand? "I can't expect you to always be there for me."

"Bobby, I've been there for you for eight years. I've tried to understand you, to support you, even when you didn't want me to."

He turned away from her. "Eames, if my own mother had no use for me, how can I ever expect anyone else to find worth in me?"

The question left her stunned. She couldn't speak, couldn't react. All she could do was watch him stand and walk away, down the hall to his bedroom. When the door closed, so did her eyes, but it didn't stop the tears of silent grief that rolled over her cheeks. _Oh, Bobby..._


	17. A Pearl of Great Worth

Eames remained in the living room, thinking, searching her mind for something she could say that would reach Goren. There had to be some way she could convince him that he did have worth to her—a great deal of it. There was a huge dichotomy between their views of him. He saw himself as worthless while she saw him as priceless. For a man who could act with such confidence, he had a dreadfully low opinion of himself. His parents had raised a good son in spite of themselves, but he was damaged.

The answer to her problem finally came to her, from a series of talks she'd had with her father over the years from the time she was about ten. She walked down the hall and knocked on the bedroom door before opening it and entering.

The room was dim, its only light filtering through the curtains that billowed in the cold breeze that blew through the open window, and it was twenty degrees colder than the rest of the apartment. Silently, she crossed the room and closed the window. Then she turned on the lamp in the corner by a comfortable chair where he liked to sit and read when he wanted to escape the world. She knew she was violating his refuge, but she had good reason, and she had never done a thing for which he had not forgiven her.

She looked toward the bed, where he was lying on his back with his arms folded beneath his head, watching her. He had removed his shirt, and her eyes were drawn to his chest. The healing wounds, red and angry, stood out against his skin. As she approached, she looked at the one furthest from her, just to the left of the lowest point of his sternum, the one her bullet had made. If the velocity had been any greater, the doctors had told her, then she would have buried him.

She tried not to make a sound but she must have, because his expression changed and he pulled the sheet over him so that only his head, arms and shoulders were visible. His dark eyes were unreadable and he was tense. "Why are you still here?" he asked.

He had expected her to leave. It was the story of his life; everyone left him. He expected no less from her. She had to convince him that she was different. "Did you think I would leave you like that?"

He shrugged. "I'd hoped you would let it go."

She shook her head. "Not a chance." She tapped his hip. "Shift over."

Without a word, he moved over, giving her room to sit on the edge of the bed by his waist. She grasped the edge of the sheet and gently pulled it down. Reaching out, she ran the tips of her fingers around the edge of the wound her bullet had made. His skin was hot. Drawing her eyes from the injury, she looked at his face. His eyes were heavy-lidded and clouded by emotion. She rested her hand flat on his chest. "Bobby, do you know the story of the pearl of great worth?"

He nodded, watching her face but remaining silent.

She continued, "When I was a kid, my father told me that he found his pearl long ago, and he made her his own. To him, my mother was his pearl of great worth, the one thing in his life he would give everything for. He told me that someday, I would find my own pearl. It might not happen right away, so I had to wait and watch. He said I would know when I found him." She paused, moving her fingers in a circle over his skin. He didn't object. She went on, "Three or four years ago, Dad took me out for dinner on my birthday, like he does every year. I told him that I finally found my pearl of great worth, the one person in my I life I would give everything for, even my life. Your mother's illness may have prevented her from seeing the value of your life, but I haven't missed it. You are the pearl in my life, Bobby. I see the good in you; I see the value you add to my own life and I know what you mean to me."

He continued to study her face, not reacting to her words. "How?" he said finally. "How can you see any worth in me, Eames?"

"All I have to do is look. For years I watched a devoted son care lovingly for a difficult mother. And I watched you unravel during her final months because in many ways, she defined your life. You put your own life on hold to care for her. Not every man would make that sacrifice. I've seen your single-minded pursuit of justice, watched you put everything into each case. And over the years, I have seen you try to insulate me from all of it. It took a long time for me to get over the pain it caused to have you shut me out of your life, for me to finally figure out why you shut me out. You are always trying to protect me, even from yourself, and you have been too self-involved to see that I don't want to be protected from you. I _want_ you to let me in. I want to see your pain, so that maybe, I can help you deal with it. Why is it so hard for you to do that?"

He drew his hand from behind his head and settled it over hers, holding it still. "Who have I ever known to show any interest in my life? It's always been me, just me. Eames, everyone leaves. That's been the pattern of my life."

"Has it ever occurred to you that maybe your relationships don't last because you refuse to let anyone in?"

"So why have you stayed? What makes you so different from everyone else, Eames?"

She shrugged. "Maybe I'm just too stubborn to let you chase me away. Maybe I stay because you need me to stay. Or maybe it's as simple as the fact that I care about you, about what happens to you. You're stuck with me, Goren. I have more of myself invested in you than in anyone else, except maybe my nephew." She lowered her head until it rested on the sheet that covered his abdomen, so she could see his eyes. "Your mother was ill, and that illness interfered with her perception of the world around her. Yet, no matter how poorly she treated you, you were always there, always willing to take her abuse, and your love never wavered. That takes a special kind of love, Bobby, a special kind of devotion, and I admire you for that. But the bottom line, what it all boils down to, is that I care deeply about you and you are not going to change that. My mind tells me that you need me, and my heart, my heart tells me that I need you." She sat up, relieved when his eyes followed her. She held his gaze and wrapped her hand around his. She watched him battle the sedating effects of the medicine he had taken and she smiled. "Go ahead and sleep. I'll be here when you get up."

His hand tightened around hers and he gave in to the overwhelming need to sleep. She sat there for a long time, watching him. She smoothed the hair back from his sweaty forehead and more closely examined the two entry wounds in his chest. _MacIlvey's bullet, the one that almost killed him...My bullet, the one that could have killed him._

If MacIlvey's bullet had gone in where hers had, or if hers had not first passed through MacIlvey before hitting Goren, then her partner would have died. Every time she thought about how close she'd come to losing him, bile rose in the back of her throat and she shivered with the knowledge of what could have been if fate was more cruel than it had already been to her. She also felt a flood of gratitude toward whatever higher power had showed her mercy that day and let him stay with her for awhile longer.

She studied his face as he slept, and her hand absently stroked his warm skin. She stopped the movement of her hand on his chest and closed her eyes, concentrating on the beating rhythm of his heart and the rise and fall of his chest beneath her hand. She pressed her eyes more tightly closed, but still a tear escaped. She felt it roll over her cheek. Several more followed, and she opened her eyes. Her sight was blurred by tears, but he had not vanished before her. He was there, still alive, still her partner. Leaning over, she softly kissed him, then she rose and left the room so he could sleep in peace.


	18. Unstoppable

He woke slowly, disliking the fog that encased his brain. Rising from the bed, he stumbled to the bathroom. By the time he stepped into the hall, he felt a little better; his mind was clearer. The apartment was filled with the aroma of cooking food and he heard the clatter of dishes in the kitchen. Eames must still be there, and she was cooking dinner. He found that reassuring. Walking into the living room, he glanced toward the window. It was dark. His eyes instinctively sought the clock on the DVD player. 6:18.

The kitchen was his next destination. He stood there, watching her add salt and then pasta elbows to a pot of boiling water. She turned over chicken breasts that were simmering in a sauce of some kind. _Citrus_, he guessed, from the smell of it. He also guessed there was broccoli steaming in the pot on the back burner.

She looked over her shoulder and gave him a smile. "Ten more minutes and dinner will be ready. Do you feel better?"

"I-I'm not sure. A little, I guess."

She nodded her head toward the coffee pot. "It's fresh."

He didn't move, resting his shoulder against the wall beside the refrigerator and deliberately not looking at her. "A pearl of great worth," he mused, talking out loud more than he was talking to her. "I don't think I have ever been...important...to another person in that way."

"Well, you are that important to me," she said firmly as she stirred the sauce and spooned it over the chicken.

"You said...you know what I mean to you. You s-said..." His mind tripped and he stopped for a moment to form the words in his head before he pushed them past his lips. "You said...you need me."

She covered the chicken and stirred the pasta. "Is there a problem with that?"

"Y-yes."

She turned her head to look at him. "Yes? What's the problem?"

He waved his hands in front of him. "I-I don't know what to do with that."

She sighed as she turned back to the stove. "You accept it."

He looked lost. "How?"

This was not a conversation she wanted to have while distracted over a hot stove. She was sweaty from the heat of the cooking pasta and simmering chicken and she didn't want to burn dinner. She looked over her shoulder again. He was watching her, his face a picture of confusion and uncertainty. He rubbed his chest and his eyes were pained.

"Take your medicine," she encouraged.

"After dinner," he promised. "After we talk."

He could be so stubborn. "It's about done. Go sit on the couch and let me dish it out."

He watched her as she got two plates from the cupboard before he turned and walked to the couch.

When Eames carried the two plates into the living room, she stopped for a moment. Goren was sitting on the couch, leaning forward. He was staring at the floor and rubbing his chest. She moved closer and set his plate on the coffee table in front of him. "It hurts, doesn't it?"

He nodded. "Yes."

She sat beside him and held out the prescription bottle. "Just take one. It will take the edge off without knocking you on your ass."

He looked at the amber bottle and then at her. "I need to talk to you."

"That's fine. Take your medicine."

When he made a move to set the bottle on the table, unopened, she added, "Please."

He drew in a deep breath and opened the bottle, dumping a single pill into his hand. She held out a glass of water. He looked up at her, and she smiled. His face softened and he took the water. "Thank you."

She watched him take the medicine and set the water on the table. "Do you want coffee?"

He shook his head. "The water is fine."

He hadn't relaxed, still sitting forward with his hand pressed flat against his chest. She set her plate beside his and leaned forward to look at his face. "Eat, Bobby."

He turned his head toward her and moistened his lips. "Tell me what to do with it, Eames. How do I...accept...something I have never had before?"

It saddened her to think he had never felt important in anyone's life, but she carefully hid that reaction from him. If he had any inkling she was feeling that way, he would shut down on her for sure. She was still searching for some way to reach him. "Bobby, all I can do is tell you how I feel. I can't make you accept it."

"I don't want you to make me accept it," he murmured. "I just need...help...to come to terms with it."

"You need help to come to terms with being loved?"

He had no idea how to explain himself. "A pearl of great worth..." he mused again. "Do you...do you know what that means, Eames?"

"Yes," she replied, annoyed. "I know exactly what it means."

His brow furrowed and his face betrayed his confusion. "How can I...I don't understand. How can I possibly be...that important to you..." His voice faded as he added, "...to anyone..."

Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away from him to hide them. To see so little worth in himself...had his mother damaged him that badly? On the job...on the job he was confident. On the job he knew his worth. It was the job that made his life worthwhile, that gave it meaning. The job made _him_ worthwhile; it gave him a purpose. Beyond that, though, he could find no worth in himself and she did not know how to alter that self-image. He would never accept the stock answer 'you just are, so deal with it.' It was not something he _could_ deal with.

With difficulty, she was able to chase the tears away and compose herself so that she could face him. Words were inadequate in this case. She would never be able to alter his image of himself with words—at least, not with words alone. She was going to have to take the bull by the horns and back up her words with powerful actions. She would never reach him with anything less. But how far was she willing to go to reassure him?

"I stayed," she said firmly, not looking at him. To start with, she would offer him a statement of fact and see what he did with it. He took the bait.

"Why?"

It troubled her that he could find no reasons on his own. She wondered if he would be able to if she challenged him. Why should she be the one to do all the work? "You tell me, Bobby. Why do you think I stayed?"

That stumped him and his mind tripped again. He could quickly come up with a bunch of reasons why she should not have stayed, but not one would come to mind for why she did. He closed his eyes, mentally traveling the course of their partnership. He saw the looks they would get from Deakins or Carver, the more censuring looks they got from Ross now. He recounted the rumors that sometimes came to him, the fights he'd been in—that she had never found out about—defending her to those who did not know her. He knew the reasons others thought he stayed, but those would involve crossing lines he had firmly and deeply drawn in the sand, lines he had never crossed, except for in his mind, in his dreams. He wished he was as good in bed as everyone seemed to think he was. He recalled Leslie LeZard's accusations—_You'll never make Captain_—and Eames' admonition later—_It's too late_. His stomach did a lurch at the thought of the mark in her jacket, the one of probably many that he was directly responsible for. Slowly, he shook his head. "I don't know, Eames."

"Are you serious? You can't think of even one reason why I would choose to stay?"

He slowly shook his head and looked at the floor. "I...need you, but that's no motivation for you. Hell, I couldn't even save you from Jo Gage." He moved his head as if to look at her, but changed his mind. "How can you need me, Eames? I have _nothing_ _to_ _offer_...to you or to anyone else."

She did not miss the emphasis he placed on the words _nothing_ _to_ _offer_. She realized that was something he truly believed. Her mind was still searching for the right response when he spoke up again. "You're stubborn," he said. "You stay because you refuse to admit to yourself that you made a mistake."

She stared at him. She had not expected that, either. Her mind spun faster; she was losing him. "What makes you think I've made a mistake? I don't think that. I never did."

"Look around at my life, Eames. What do I have, except my job and you? I have nothing to show for the life I've lived. Not one damn thing."

She could feel him slipping away, and she knew she had to find some way to reel him back. She also knew she had to be gentle. Her sharp tongue would leave scars right now if she used it. _What to say...what to say..._ Her mind scrambled. Finally it latched onto a discussion she'd had with Ross while Goren was fighting for his life in surgery. It was information she was certain Goren hadn't wanted her to have but the circumstances had demanded that she know about it. It was enough to shift the tide of the conversation and possibly give her the time she needed to refute his feelings of worthlessness. "When you were in surgery, I found out something I didn't know before, and I would like an explanation, if you have one."

His brow furrowed as he searched for anything he might have done before he'd been shot that would have upset her when she found out about it, but he could think of nothing. "Wh-what did you find out?"

"You changed your life insurance beneficiary after your mother died."

His face colored. This was not a conversation he ever intended to have with her. By the time life insurance came up, he was certain it would be too late for her to say anything about it. "Uhm...I..." He wanted to defend his decision, but it _was _his decision and he didn't have to justify it to anyone, not even her. He was not going to change his mind. "Yes, I did."

"Your brother should be listed."

"Why? So he can take the money and send it up his crack pipe or gamble it away?"

"Okay. Donny then."

"A nephew I don't know and never knew about, who is on the run from the law? I don't even know where to find him. Face it, Eames. I have no one. It was either you or some random charity. I chose you...because you are all I have left."

_You are all I have left..._The words struck her like a physical blow, even though he'd already said as much. Again she searched her mind for something that would refute what he had just said. She could find nothing. He was right. He had no one else. All he had left was the job...and her.

_You refuse to admit to yourself that you made a mistake._ She struggled to keep her voice even when she spoke again. "And yet you are so certain I made a mistake by staying. Damn it, Bobby, I did _not_ make a mistake," she said firmly.

He didn't react, except to say, "The rest of the world thinks you did."

"The hell with the rest of the world," she declared, anger giving her voice the steadiness she needed it to have. "I don't care what anyone else thinks. This is our partnership, and it works. I love my job now more than I ever have, and a big part of that is you. You're unpredictable and exciting. I never know what each day will bring, and I relish the challenge of trying to keep up with that brilliant mind of yours. I could have moved on, but I chose not to because I want to be your partner. I will never forgive you if you walk away from me."

"Walk away?" he repeated in a tone that suggested he was having a hard time comprehending the concept. "I...I would only do that as a last resort, Eames. Only if I knew beyond all doubt it was the best thing for you."

That gave her hope because he had not left. Nothing had yet convinced him she was better off without him, and it was up to her to convince him that she was definitely better with him. "I'm a sharper investigator, a smarter cop and a better person because of you," she insisted.

"A _better_...person?"

"Yes, Bobby. A better person. You can be a self-centered bastard, but you have one of the biggest hearts of any man I've ever met. Before I became partners with you, I never even tried to see a perp in any kind of sympathetic light. The world was black and white for me; there was good and bad, victims and perpetrators. You introduced different shades of gray along with the occasional splash of color. Guilty is still guilty, but somehow...it's different. I still can't find any sympathy for a guy like John Tagman, but Wally Stevens, Mike McShale...I can start to see shadows on the dark side of the moon." His shoulders didn't seem so tense, and she went on. "I will never look at life the same again." She shifted closer to him, reaching out to stroke his cheek with the back of her index finger. "I can never look at a seashell now without realizing it once protected a fragile life. I can't feel the wind without thinking of an ocean wave or a butterfly's wing. And when I see a child playing in the park, I feel a little less empty. All because you have made me see life from a different perspective. I have a richer view of simple things."

He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. Closing his eyes, he focused on the sensation of her finger as it trailed across his skin. He rubbed his chest for a moment, but the pain was subsiding. He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her. "You mean that," he said quietly.

"Of course I do." She slid closer, until her knee touched his leg. "Never think I will be better off without you," she insisted. "Because I won't."

He looked at her knee and laid his hand over it, but he did not look up at her. "You don't know that."

She laid her hand over his. "Yes, I do, because I know what I am with you and I don't want that to change."

He gave that some thought. "Change..."

When he trailed off, she smiled. "You don't do well with change," she offered.

"No. No, I don't."

"When your mom died, a lot changed for you. She was always your focus off the job. Tell me...where do you put that focus now?"

Where _did_ he put it? His mind spun in circles looking for the answer, but it wasn't there. "I...I don't _have_ a focus outside the job any more," he murmured, realizing that for the first time.

That explained why he was always in the squad room, always buried in a file or a book. She leaned forward and looked at his face. "It's time, Bobby. It's time for you to heal; it's time for you to start living."

He averted his eyes, and she knew he was withdrawing. She had to draw him back, but she wasn't sure how. Her mind scrambled. She moistened her lips, remaining where she was so she could still see his face. "Bobby, please answer a question for me."

He looked at her but he was wary. He also seemed uncomfortable with her proximity, but he didn't move away. "What question?"

"The other day...when you kissed me...you said it was to catch me off guard." The mention of the kiss sent his tension level skyrocketing again, and she squeezed his hand tightly. "It worked. You caught me off guard. But I need to know if it meant anything to you."

He slowly shook his head. He didn't want it to, but it did. "It...can't," he whispered. "I can't let it."

"But it did."

He withdrew his hand from hers. If he admitted that it did, it would make the kiss more than he wanted it to be. He could not allow it; he wouldn't. He should have looked away, but he was drawn to her, like a moth to a flame. God...he was doomed.

Eames knew there was a line in the sand before her. If he were any less a man, Goren would be daring her to cross it. But he wasn't. He was as fully aware of it as she was, and he was begging her not to cross it. She was conflicted, not sure what he would do if she followed her heart. She had once sworn she would never again go through what she did when Joe died. She had promised herself she would never love another cop. Then Goren had come along and everything changed. It had taken time but he had set her world on its end and she knew there was no going back.

She moved her hand and brushed it over the hair at his temple. He drew in an unsteady breath but did not pull away. "It did," she repeated, gently forcing the issue.

His breathing remained ragged as his mind returned to the hospital lobby, to the memory of the kiss he'd stolen. He wanted more, but it was forbidden. He wouldn't allow it; she wouldn't allow it. He was lucky she hadn't punched him. It had been worth it--and it hadn't. He had a small inkling of what he was missing and he didn't want another peek into a forbidden world. His life was filled with enough regret.

Her hand continued to smooth back his hair, straying around the curve of his ear. "Eames..." he whispered, closing his eyes.

"Just say the word and I will stop," she said softly, a lot closer than he wanted her to be.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. She continued teasing his hair and said, "It meant something."

He was done. He could not fight her. Before he could stop himself, he was nodding. It wasn't supposed to, but it did. Before he knew what was happening, her lips brushed across his skin, placing a soft kiss in front of his ear. His stomach flipped and he swallowed a groan. "E-Eames..." he managed, though her name came out on a strangled moan.

Another kiss grazed his jaw...then his cheek...and he turned his head, giving her access to his mouth--and silent permission to claim it. It was a soft kiss, and he wanted more. His hands rested on her hips and slowly eased their way up her sides and around her back as he deepened the kiss. She leaned into him, sliding herself onto his lap as she wrapped her arms around him. He buried a hand in her hair and touched the tip of his tongue to her lips. Her lips parted, welcoming his exploration.

Slowly, she withdrew and leaned back, overwhelmed and breathless, resting against his knees, one leg on either side of his lap, and watching him in silent apprehension. He dropped his head back, eyes closed and breathing hard. She slid her hips forward until her knees rested on either side of his hips. He rested his hands on her waist and opened his eyes, watching her face. "You started this," she accused lightly, teasing.

He couldn't argue with that. How many times had he done something that he later regretted? Someday he would learn to control his impulses. Splaying his hands over her hips, he sighed. She placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned into them. "So what now?" she asked.

He shook his head slowly. "I don't know. I really don't know." He moved his thumbs over the curve of her hips. "But whatever we do, I can't...lose you. I've lost enough."

That would get no argument from her. "Don't overthink this. Just take it for what it is."

"What is it?"

"It's an offering--of support, of comfort, of love. It's a progression of our friendship, an evolution, of sorts."

"And work?"

"Work is work. As long as we keep this out of the squad room, we'll be fine."

"Can you be pissed at me and still function as my partner?"

"I have in the past, haven't I? That won't change." She moved her hand from her chest toward his. "This will. It already has."

"But remember? I don't do well with change."

"I'll get you through it, like I always do."

His mouth relaxed into a brief smile. "I count on that," he answered.

Leaning forward, she hugged him, relaxing against his chest. He smoothed his hand over her hair, tightening his other arm around her. She slid off his lap and picked up both plates. "Let me reheat these. You need to eat so you can heal."

He waited for her to return, and they ate in silence, each lost with their own thoughts about the turn their relationship was taking.

If there was a time to put the brakes on, it was now, and part of him wanted to slam to a screeching halt. A bigger part of him, though, seemed willing to take the risk. When working a case, he was willing to do whatever it took to solve the case. In his personal life, however, he was much more cautious. This could turn out to be the most wondrous event of his entire life or the biggest catastrophe, and he had no way to predict what it would be. For probably the first time in his life, he was going to have to step fully into a situation with no guarantee of the outcome. If this relationship fell apart, so would his life. It was the biggest risk he had ever taken, and he was anxious about it, but if she was willing to open this Pandora's Box, he would not deny her what she wanted.

She was surprised to see that he seemed to have settled down, and she was glad. She was not going into this blind. She knew him better than anyone did. She knew his strengths and she knew his failings. She had seen the bastard in him but she had seen the tender side of him as well. She knew a personal relationship with him was going to be a lot of work peppered with some pain, but if he could find it in himself to let go and project himself into _them_, it was going to blow her mind. Sitting at his bedside after the shooting, as she struggled with the fact that she was at least partially responsible for his condition, she began to think of her life in terms of his. She knew how important she was to him, but what struck her to the core was how important he had become to her. Where once she could have moved on and not suffered too much for it, now she knew she could not. They were taking a risk in moving forward, but she felt it was a risk well worth taking. As a team, they were formidable. Fully together in every aspect of their lives, they would be unstoppable.

_fin._


End file.
